My life is really boring at this point. I feel like a potato; do you guys know how boring a potato is? Potatoes are lonely things without lives that were put into this world for uptight people who wash their hands everytime they exit the loo and change their underwear everyday; a man is supposed to only change his underwear when he feels itchy and his balls are becoming warm.
I do the same things everyday. I binge-watch Netflix’s ‘The Defenders’ and ‘Iron Fist’ for the most part of my time, go to bed at around 4 a.m., wake up circa 2 p.m., check to see if Gabrielle Union has responded to my Instagram D.Ms (she still hasn’t; it’s been 6 months, Gabrielle), warm some left over meals, add on three avocadoes and six Chapatis, then go back to bed and turn on the T.V., and Repeat. The most interesting thing that has happened in my life in recent times was when I tried watching the overhyped Game of Thrones but realized I had better things to do like falling smack asleep on the couch at the second minute and dreaming of coming back as a beetle in my next life.
There was also that time I went to visit a friend and ate so much that when I went to take a dump in her loo and flushed, that shit (and I mean this literally, not figuratively) just remained there staring at me. Flushed the second time and there it was. The third and forth times and there it still was. Looking me straight in the eye, challenging me, daring me to do something. I didn’t know what to do so I just left it there and ran out without a word. I deleted that mami’s contacts when I had reached a safe distance and blocked her on all social media. You can judge me all you want but y’all know there would’ve have been no coming back from that.
You guys see how boring my life has been, No? That’s why when they called and asked to take me to lunch, I couldn’t say No. I jumped at the offer and grabbed it with both hands like a perfect set of breasts. So long as it meant getting me out of the house, I was good. Hell, they would have called me out for mutura and toe soup and I still would’ve showed up. I was desperate for something interesting to do with my life. And that was how I ended up at Charlie’s Bistro, Lang’ata Road, on a Monday afternoon with Sandy and Chloe.
First of all, Sandy and Chloe are not even their real names. ‘Sandy’ is Sandwela Barongo Nyanjera and ‘Chloe’ is Choliandini Werengekha Nakhatandi. ‘Sandy’ and ‘Chloe’ are just names they gave themselves when they joined USIU and signed onto Instagram (Sandy has 76K followers while Chloe has 68K. How idle are these people who follow these girls?) I don’t blame them though, I mean, what kind of parents name their kids ‘Sandwela’ and ‘Choliandini’? How is it even possible to love your babies after naming them like that? Are those even kids that you want to prosper in life? Are those even kids that you want to get boyfriends who pull out seats for them during dates? Those must have been some really sad parents; I picture Sandwela’s father as one of those men who go to the bar alone on a Monday and order a warm White Cap, Choliandini’s mother sounds like the kind of person who, on being asked if she needs anything while being wheeled into the delivery room, would say, “Yes, a bottle of vodka, please.” Those names sound like everthing that comes out of Donald Trump’s mouth.
Anyway, so Sandy calls me that Monday afternoon and goes, “Hello, handsome.” I go quiet for a second, because nobody calls me ‘handsome’; I look like a screw driver (the tool, not the cocktail.) The last time somebody called me ‘handsome’ I was only 11 and it was my mother and she wanted to me to snitch on who had broken her pot. So I get fidgety when a lady calls me ‘handsome’ because I know she wants something; they always do. Anyway, I figure a compliment is best responded to with a compliment so I go, “Hello, beautiful.” She responds, “I’m Good, how are you?” (Quick one; Guys, I’m a very busy man, I have more pressing matters to attend to like watching porn and smelling my own feet, I have no time for such small talk. So if you ever feel like calling me, just go straight to the point, sawa?) I say, “I’m Good, what’s up?” She goes, “How does your afternoon look like? Wanna grab a bite with me and Chloe?” I say, “Chloe and I.” She goes, “What?” and I say, “You said ‘me and Chloe.’ That’s incorrect Grammar, it’s ‘Chloe and I.” She laughs and says, “Whatever, Nazi.” Then she says there’s this new place they heard of that they really want to try out and would love some male company while at it. I hesitate for a second there and Sandy breaks the awkward silence with, “We’re buying, Ian. Jeez!” I laugh and say, “Next time lead with that.”
We meet at the CBD; Sandy is in a glittering gold dress that goes to just above her knees, Chloe is in a short top that reveals her navel, a faded tight booty short and heels as tall as my ego. Now, I don’t mean this in a bad way, but they are usually not even remotely beautiful girls. On their best days, they are still a weak 3.5 out of 10. The amount of make up on both their faces that Monday alone, if wiped out, would’ve been enough to fill out a whole floor at the Intercon. Anyway, so we grab a Taxify for Lang’ata, alight at South End Mall, spring up to the 5th floor and, voila, Charlie’s Bistro. I feel it important to add that from the moment we got into that Taxify till we arrived at the mall, I had received 54 notifications from Instagram. I check what the fuss is all about once we’re safely seated in the restaurant and find myself tagged in goofy selfies of guess who and who? Of course, Kim Kardashian and Amber Rose over here.
Some nice waitress named Jenny comes for our order and Sandy and Chloe take a whole 426 hours to settle on a meal that was right at the top of the menu. I say, “just give me a cold Tusker and anything with a tonne of chicken in it” and she brings me a plate of chicken nuggets with a side of coleslaw. Sandy and Chloe’s orders come a bit after mine and I almost scream. You guys remember that incident up there of when I went to a friends house and took a dump that refused to wash away even after four flushes? Yes, now add a bit greens to that, sprinkle some masala and salt, then add two round buns that look like balls and put that in a plate. I swear, that is exactly what those meals looked like. I cringe and Chloe notices. “What?” She goes. “What the hell is that?” I ask. “We don’t know, but it came highly recommended so we want to try it out,” she says. I go, “Sweetheart, I don’t think whoever recommended that has your best interests at heart. Because that looks like poison, I wouldn’t feed it to my ex. And I actually want to poison her.” Sandy clicks and says, “Stop hating. Kama hutaki kuangalia funga macho.” And, with that, I take my eyes away from their meals and dig into my chicken.
Then they take out their phones (Infinix, of course) and start taking pictures. They take pictures of their food, then my food, then of all three plates arranged neatly on the table, then selfies of themselves holding bites to their mouths and fiddling with their hair and twitching their lips in a manner that would make chimpanzees seem more intelligent than humans, then pictures of the place, hell, even pictures of the walls. After what seems like a 3-day marathon photo shoot, uploading begins. And those Instagram notifications start pouring in again, so I switch off my phone. The uploading takes another three weeks because I imagine that there are filters and flowers to be added before releasing them to their combined 144K Followers.
By the time they are done, the food looks stale and barely edible; the buns look like a pair of balls exposed to snow. I’m done with my chicken nuggets and just taking slow sips of my beer by now. Because they were acting all classy and shit, I imagine they will return the food and ask for a fresh batch. But, No! The mamis dig in like that is the most delicious meal ever made by human hands. Every time they take a bite I feel like throwing up, and every time I feel like throwing up I take a sip of my beer to push it back in. Because if someone is buying you lunch, you don’t throw up into their plates; even if what they’re taking already looks like throw up. I switch my phone back on and pretend to be reading something on there, anything to take my eyes off this pathetic sight. I log onto Instagram and find myself tagged in photos of me gobbling down chicken like a hobo with captions like, ‘How Your MCM eats.’ Which is an insult that I find really cute because at least someone somewhere considers me worthy of an MCM mention, a slay queen no less (suck on that, all of you Beliebers.)
I left that restaurant with only two things in mind; One, I’m never having lunch with slay queens again. Two, Who the fuck are these 144K followers of these mamis? I really want to take them out for drinks and find out who hurt them.