Let me make a confession here today, I am terrible at meeting women. I’m pretty comfortable around the ones I know but new women are like babies to me: I have absolutely no idea what to do with them. I mean, sure, I could admire their beautiful faces and dizzy eyes and peck them on the cheek and swat their soft behinds and say “aaaawww” when they fart but, other than that, I will sit across that table and sip my Mai Tai and ignore you all day long. 

This attitude has made it very difficult for me to meet women my own age because they always assume I’m shy or a snob or just a serial killer. I don’t mind, though, because women my age are a bunch of pretentious assholes anyway. They’re needy and demanding and over-protective and hopeless and vain and money-minded and a tad too loud in bed for my liking. For chrissakes, there’s only so many times you can moan “Oh God… Oh God” when a man is in you before you cross the blasphemy line. 

Enter stage left: The Cougar.

I went to see a friend of mine – Chris – at their offices in Kilimani during one of my Fridays off a while back. Chris is a warm fellow who speaks softly and laughs heartily and has a dapper sense of style; he’s one of those chaps who will come to the bar on a Friday evening in an orange khaki trouser, a white shirt and a green blazer. He also has a girlfriend whom I don’t like (I rarely ever like any of my boys’ girlfriends) because, once when I visited Chris and she was there, I ran into the bathroom and took the mother of all shits but – unknowingly – there was no water so I stuffed the loo with tissue and left unashamedly. She gave me hell about that and now when I meet her with her girls, they give me the stank eye that seems to say they talked about me. Chris works at an ad agency; which means the boss leaves the office at 1p.m, they shut down their computers by 3p.m and are drunk 15 minutes later. Right there in the office. 

So him and I were courting our whiskey glasses while engaging in silly banter in this cushy room that also had a pool table where two gentlemen were playing and one of them – kijanafupi, round, nono– was getting his ass seriously kicked. Then this woman walked up to us and gave Chris a polite hug and shook my hand, introduced herself to me as “Millicent, but you can call me Milly” then struck a conversation with Chris which I assumed was work-related because she looked like she worked there. She was sporting short hair, a figure hugging skirt and these really high high-heels. She also looked older, mid 40s by my estimation, yet had this calm aura around her that seemed to say, “I’m a lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets.” Which was both scary and a turn on; because, ladies, men are drawn to mystery and excitement. 

She turned towards me unexpectedly then back to Chris and said, “Doesn’t your friend talk?” Chris said, “Ask him.” Then she turned toward me again and said, “Do you ever talk? Or are you just shy.” Normally, I answer stupid questions like those with an equal measure of stupidity. But I was about three doubles of Jack Daniels in at that time so I was feeling unusually chirpy and generous and nice so I said, “I thought you were having a private conversation.”

“What private conversation? We were talking about cars.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know anything about them and I don’t have one so…private conversation.”

“You don’t need to have one to chime in.” 

“Do you have a betting account?”


“Do you walk into a discussion about Sportpesa and Betin and Shabiki and say ‘hapo kwa Man U na Wolves weka G-G?’

She went silent. I had argued my case. But I could sense she had a thing for me because – as we progressively kept drinking – she would come next to me and hold my arm and stroke my hair and laugh at some not-so-funny things I would say and give me those sexy eyes women give men when they want them to just shut up and take their pants off. She looked like trouble, which was the first red sign that I should have clocked; and then she had a wedding ring on her finger, the second red flag. But by that time I was so high and drunk and all kinds of tipsy I wouldn’t have remembered my Mum’s middle name if you asked me.

Somewhere towards midnight, she said, “Listen, it’s a Friday, let’s get out of here and go somewhere else. I know a nice chilled out place. On me.” Those last two words to me were everything, so my eyes lit up and I threw a fist in the air and said, “Say no more.” Then we turned to Chris and the little bitch said, “Nah, you guys go ahead, I have an early morning, and my girl is waiting for me at home.” Now, I knew if I tried to convince him to come along, either one of two things would happen; she would have to call his girl and tell her “I’m going out with Ian” or come along with her. Neither of those scenarios suited me. So we told him “Sawa” and left.

Midway down the lift, I asked her where we were going and she asked “Why?” and I said “because I’m trynna call an Uber” and she said, “no need, I’m parked right outside.” So we got down stairs and she did that thing people with cars do where they press a button on their keys and the car produces a “chwi chwi” sound so you know where it is. I should have clocked the fourth red flag when I climbed onto that beastly BWX X6 but I didn’t. Or I just didn’t want to.

She drove us to Onyx Lounge on Marsabit Plaza, Ngong Road and ordered us a bottle of J.W Black Label at the balcony. We drank neat, no rocks, and conversed like long lost lovers reunited after an eternity. I told her about my barely existent love life and my job and why I think Akothee and Timmy Tdat deserve more credit than they get and she told me about her life and her marriage and her big shot husband – fifth red flag – who was always travelling all the time. “So where is he now?” I asked. “In Dubai,” she said. “Must get lonely,” I responded. “Yeah,” she murmured.

Then we drank some more and when we thought we’d had enough – which was only about half the bottle, around 1:30 a.m – she asked me to accompany her to her place in Lavington because our conversation had made her feel lonely and “I don’t think I want to sleep alone tonight.” I asked if she was positive she could drive and she said “No.” So I grabbed the bottle and called an Uber and she told the security chap at the entrance that she would come for her car a little later Saturday evening. “Are you sure that’s safe,” I asked. “Yeah, I do this all the time when I’m too drunk to drive.” 

We got to her house about 30 minutes later. Up until then, the only place more beautiful I had ever been to was The Hemmingways Hotel in Karen. But this… this was something else. Her living room looked like where the Lord meets with angels and makes all the decisions about the world. Her bathroom was so exquisite you could roll Chapatis on the floor. She had a magnificent view from her balcony where – if you spread out your arms – you almost felt like you were floating in air. Her master bedroom was so heavenly I felt unworthy even stepping foot into it.

She brought some glasses while I was still marveling at the bedroom and poured us a finger each of whiskey. We sat on the bed and continued drinking while engaging in light conversation with soft Chris Brown music playing in the background. Then she placed down her glass and pulled me in for a kiss.

I only remember being woken up at about 4a.m. with a loud slap on my cheeks. And then a punch, a kick, another slap, a blow and then some more. I didn’t understand what was going on. I thought the house was being robbed. I jumped out of bed – only in my boxers – and tried to flee towards the door but was caught dead in my tracks by something that felt like a cricket bat on my back. I fell smack on the floor, motionless, as tears rolled down my eyes. I managed to gather some little strength and as I tried to get up, I heard a rough voice bark, “Stay down before I kill you.” 

At this moment, I was dead ass sure the house was being robbed. So I lay back down with my hands behind my head like I see them do in movies and said a little prayer that if I should die today, dear Lord, let me not die in my least favorite boxers.

Then I heard Milly say, “Please, babe, it’s not what it looks like. We didn’t do anything.” The man responded, “Mimi natravel nikikutafutia pesa uishi maisha mazuri wewe kazi ni kuleta vijana wadogo kwa nyumba yangu sindio? Wacha nitafute bunduki yangu mtaona leo.”It dawned on me, right there and then, that the hubby who was supposedly in Dubai had come back. It also hit me that I was probably going to die there – half naked, in terrible boxers – if I didn’t do anything. I mean, what would the news even read the following day? I can already see the headline on The StarJournalist caught pants down with another man’s wife, shot dead in ugly boxers! And Mpasho: 7 things you did not know about joiurnalist who was caught nyemelearingbusinessman’s hot wife! I couldn’t take it.

So, while he ransacked his closet for his gun, I dashed out of that room, opened the door in a record three seconds and flew out of that house so fast Eliud Kipchoge didn’t have shit on me. I kept running for so long I only stopped when I realized my legs were getting colder and colder because I was still in my boxers since I had left my clothes behind during the melee.

What I’m trying to say here today is simple: Gentlemen, flock with your own kind. Wachaneni na bibi za wenyewe! Also, who knows a cure for a sore back?



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