She Had a Loose Bladder

I equally have no idea what’s going on in this photo… But it looks like a bathroom session so it’ll do.

I’ve met my fair share of women in this town.

I’ve met women who cook for you and you want to lay on their chests and stay there forever and make babies with her. I’ve met women you stop on the streets and tell “You look good” (an honest compliment) and they say, “I know!” Women you immediately want to shake their hands with a broken Heineken bottle. I’ve met women with weaves so smelly you’d think a porcupine took a dump on their heads while they slept. I’ve met women who drink as much as I do (if not more.) I’ve met women who will only know how to cook when politicians stop sleeping in parliament. I’ve met women who put sugar in their wine to make it “sweeter.” I’ve met women who leave the toilet seat up. I’ve met women who come to visit you with a packet of noodles. I’ve met women who break down after the third bottle of White Cap. Oh, I’ve met women who drink White Cap.

And then I’ve also met women you look at and undress with your eyes and say to yourself, “God-damn, I’d hit that till morning.” Women with curves in all the right places and titillating lips and long smooth legs. I’ve met women with a killer sense of style. I’ve met huge women with waists the size of the Equator but with beautiful souls and welcoming smiles and warm attitudes; women who are comfortable just the way they are and wear their pride on their wrists like Rolex watches. I’ve met women who have challenged me intellectually and challenged me to want more out of life besides just ‘blogging.’ I’ve met women who drive with their men on the passenger’s seat; women who deserve to be drafted into the ‘Boss Mama Hall of Fame’ and given gold plaques and streets named after them and their children kept away from Justin Bieber’s music – for the sake of their own prosperity.

And I thought I had met them all; until I met a grown ass woman who peed in her sleep.

I had this really cool gig in Westlands some time back where I would show up at the office at 8 a.m., update the company’s social media pages (with memes, most of the time) do a couple content pieces to be published on the company’s website, add a few more memes to the company social media accounts, then browse and watch funny Emmanuela clips on YouTube and bounce soon as the clock hit 6 p.m. It was a fun job; my only problem was the working hours. The Boss (she was a lady, she had the most beautiful legs I have ever seen, and a husband – who drove a very ugly Subaru – with whom they co-owned the company) wanted me to show up to the office every day, Monday to Saturday, at 8 a.m. and leave at 6 p.m. to do work I could have done within an hour. With my eyes closed. While nursing a hangover. So one day I asked her to allow me come to the office only two days of the week and she didn’t like and one thing led to another and I was out on the streets.

Anyway, so this one day I’m at my desk in the office banging away on the keyboard trying to look serious when, really, I’m just looking up porn sites when my phone rings. It’s a Friday and it’s 4 p.m. and I’m exhausted and bored I almost feel like biting my own feet so that phone call comes as some sort of savior. It’s my boy – Jack – calling. And, when Jack calls you, you do not pick up that phone in an office setting because your phone volume is unnecessarily high (bloody Tecno) and Jack is one of those boys that shout and say lewd stuff and don’t give a rat’s ass who hears. So I walk out and pick it up outside.

“Yo’ what’s up?” I say.

“Chief. Where are you?” He poses.

“At work. Why?”

“Get out right now, mate. I don’t care how. Just get the hell out of that shit-hole and come to my house, right now!”

“First of all, that’s not how employment works, bruv. You can’t just walk out whenever you feel like it. I have to stay here till 6. Oh, also, I’d appreciate it very much if you don’t call my workplace a shit-hole, thank you.”

“You called it a shit-hole yourself just last week.”

“Yeah. It’s Okay when I say it. You don’t get to say it.”

“Whatever, man, look, just get out as soon as you can and come over.”

“Why? What’s happening huko?”

“We’re binge-watching Mexican soaps. The hell does it sound like to you, man? It’s a freaking party in here. Girls, booze, Fifa; got a better plan for your Friday?”


“Didn’t think so. Get out of there and bring your ass here boy.”

I couldn’t do anything at work after that phone call. I just sat there, still, waiting, scheming, and soon as the clock hit 6 p.m., I flew out of that office and hopped on the next bus like my ass was on fire. I was at Jack’s place in an hour and a half. There were women; there was alcohol; there was weed (so much weed); and there was Sheesha. That place was a crime scene; literally.

I said ‘hi’ to the boys, poured myself a double and retreated to a corner of the house where I drank in peace and forgot all about my troubles. Thirty minutes later this chic in a short skirt and a white top comes up to me and says, “Hey, aren’t you that blogger?” I say “No,” mostly because I hate the term ‘Blogger.’ But she insists, “No. It’s got to be you. I saw your photo somewhere and when you walked in here I thought you looked familiar. Took me six shots to gather the courage to come up to you.” And I smiled. Because I was flattered and my head was so ‘swollen’ with pride at that moment if you poked it with a needle it would explode and spill all manner of things on people.

I engaged her for most of the night after that; but mostly because we spoke about me half the time. Deep into the night she began groping me in places I normally wouldn’t allow but this wasn’t a normal night. She kissed me on the lips and on the neck and gave me these eyes that seemed to say, “I want to take you right here right now! Fuck all these people, take me on this sofa right now and do with me as you please. I’m all yours baby, I’m all yours.”

I was feeling pretty confident in myself. It was definitely going to be a good night. So I asked Jack for the keys to one of his bedrooms and took the mami with me. But, midway, she began to throw up and these weird stuff – that looked a lot like a meal of sukuma wiki and boiled maize – were coming out of her mouth. Now, personally, when a girl pukes such kinds of things – that could easily pass as a danger to the human race – it becomes an immediate turn off for me. I lose any interest I ever had in you and get my ass the hell out of there. So after she was done puking out her atrocities, I took her to the bedroom whose key I had been given, neatly put her to bed (because I’m a gentleman like that), locked her in so nobody could take advantage of her (you know how these house parties go, and I didn’t want my name being thrown around in court the next day) and went back to enjoying my liquor.

The following morning we wake up to a loud knock on one of the bedrooms of someone demanding to be let out. Because I’m hangover, it takes me a whole 6 minutes that the loud banging is coming from the rom I had lay Madam-Atrocities to sleep in. I stagger to the door, fiddle with the keys and soon as it opens, a screaming pungent (I’ve waited so long to use this word, just let me have it) smell hits me and I move back two inches because it was the kind of smell that kills. Then I gather enough strength to steal a peek into the room and the bed looks like bloody Lake Victoria. It’s wet all over and the urine is dripping on the floor now and her skirt that looked so cute last night now looks like it was used to mop a church in Gwakairo. She notices me staring at her, giggles kidogo and says, “Oops!” I remember looking at her like, “No, woman, you don’t get to say Oops. Oops is what you say when you go to steal your neighbor’s chicken and he finds you and charges with a panga and your cloth gets stuck on the fence. Oops is what you say when you accidentally drop a child’s candy. Oops is what you say when you get 3 out of 60 in a Communication Skills paper. You don’t get to say Oops when you turn someone’s bed into a bloody island!!”

Then, get this, she smiles at me and asks, “So, last night, did we…uhmmm…have….” I didn’t even let her finish that sentence. I put my hand up and said, “Child, please!” Then I said a prayer to the good ol’ Man Above for not letting me commit the biggest mistake of my entire existence. Because, banging that woman? Shit, I would have been better off masturbating to frogs having sex. On NatGeo.



  1. Sarah 8 June, 2017 at 09:04 Reply

    Hehe doesn’t this woman have the hormone responsible for things like shame?

    The bed is dripping, she’s wet and her biggest concern is whether something happened between you guys?

    She should have been on her knees praying that the door remains locked. For a miracle, some heat to dry the bed instantly and something small to turn her into the princess she was the previous night.

    Dim of wit :p.

  2. Kevin 9 June, 2017 at 13:43 Reply

    “Women you immediately want to shake their hands with a broken Heineken bottle.” Hahah only God knows how u came up with that babaa..Great read!!Piny mor

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