His right shoulder leans against the huge black
plastic tank located on the way to the men’s washrooms. A green polythene bag
is firmly clutched on his left hand. I make a mental note of the turban on his
head (he's probably a mokorino) and his stained pants. His companion, a chocolate-complexioned, petite,
about 5’7 is in sandals, a pair of fading gray tailor made slacks and a short
sleeved shirt that is missing the third button from the top. ‘Itina ti rĩagũkombora’ – this ass is not for rent – He tells him...
*******
The massage seat raises me upright marking the end
of my session. The mechanics underneath are still working their magic against
my back. I feel re-energized. Boy and the work they did on my head and tushi
butt! The adorable lady attendant removes the blind fold on my eyes. She’s
grinning in sync with Mungai who seems to have been watching me. ‘Wait, thirty minutes are over already?’
I ask. ‘Yes, she even had to add you ten,
you were in your own world. Let’s head to Santa’s grotto, I’ve been so good
this year’. Mungai supplies as he pays the cashier. ‘Yeah Right. If blowing a
married man’s whistle is counted as being good this year, I need to grace Reke
Marie. I hear there are men…’ Mungai’s camera falls from his hand interrupting me and his
previously grinning face is now somewhat between shock and someone who’s just
been disappointed with the foondamendos
of his one night fling candidate…
*******
Behind The Scenes
Happy New Year
Colerians! Even heaven knows we have a backlog of gossip, let’s just wing it:
1. So Binyavanga Wainaina (an internationally acclaimed author and a Caine Prize champ)
came out last week and the country was sent into frenzy. Okay, first I
apologize on behalf of my fellow style savvy (because fashion is overrated) gay
men on the catastrophe B had in one of his first major public media interviews post the proclamation. We’re in fact working overtime to ensure that
whoever is close to him ensures some tux is always available with his new gaylebrity status. The gay code has
never relented on matters appearances. Fine, before I’m hauled over the coals
for not supporting our own, I do praise the ongoing discourse thanks to (as
usual) the Kenyan media’s intrigue with the homosexual story. In my view,
Mr.Wainaina’s coming out is a note to my forty something self. Maybe the whole
ceremony is handled differently when you’re older and successful, no? I’ve
always told one of my friends that coming out is that ‘sacred pilgrimage’ that
hangs above the head of any bonafide gay man. Whether he pursues it, is a different
tale. Just look at the ones accused (or even ‘outed’) by tabloids for loving
dick or ass. The buck always stops with them – Well, unless your wife finds you
busy on top of or below a naked man
in your marital bed. Binyavanga, I ain’t an authority but you’ve won my
admiration even as the usual Leviticus wielding Kenyans abound thinking being gay
is a recruitable habit and all about anal sex that leads to use of adult
pampers due to incontinence. Are you for real? If you’re a homophobe, someone
needs to massage your forehead with a brick or better yet encourage you to
throw yourself in front of a train when the controversial standard gauge
railway is complete for just the struggle to imagine the alleged nefarious
things that happen in people’s bedrooms.
2.
Talking of fashion and great minds. Let’s not just sit here and pretend we’re
not members of this new religion Lupita. Girl,
you now just need to get J. Leto’s second name (too tragic Brad is off limits),
get many further Oscars and when you finally get that parking space for your
yacht, you can retire, have a million dollar divorce suit, come back home and
run for president. Focus Cole. I endeavored to watch her film last weekend
and (Fanning himself) Lord Have
Mercy! Steve McQueen, - I’m speaking on behalf of a number of homos (and
heteros) here, what was so difficult giving us me a full frontal of
those men slaves when they were bathing? That was just so much beef. Moving
along swiftly, a lesbian friend of mine decided to ruin my party and asked why no one is commenting about Lup’s 'boobs’? Silence. Clearly everyone wants a piece
of our girl. I won’t comment on this matter besides, a boob is only a subject
of discussion when you see the nipple, no? Dykes please don’t push it. Men are
still stuck on her short hair.
3. So Charles and Rita (Her of the HPV fame), the
other day over pizza decided that I can’t be gangsta or even date one just
because I want breakfast in bed, a chest as a pillow and a kiss. Have these
bitches even seen my tattoos? Well, since I’ve dissented with them, I’ll just
float this out to you. Is it true that thug or hood love is all about a rough
bang then sleep? A story for another day.
4. It was all fun and games until Mututho, the bawse
of this alcoblow ‘thing’ decided to not only hate on Man U by dismissing us
them as drunks who are too wasted to focus on training but also flaunt his
three iPads in a presser (Homie’s losing his mind). Thanks to this Nyumba kumi program, I recently
discovered he’s my neighbor in the hood. He’s also produced a new sitcom on
Prime time TV. Have you watched the weekend News lately? I swear our
bourgeoisie Kenyans are under siege going by the agony most go through blowing
on that thing. Unless they are feigning it, some folk’s blowjob expertise is highly
wanting.
*******
… as Mungai
engages Santa negotiating for more lollipops I opt to make a phone call to J
recommending a TRM massage rendezvous to him. As expected, he pulls a Phaedra
on me citing hygiene concerns until I tell him it’s a chair and not a human
being doing it. I’m still struggling to understand why he swims in the ocean
like a fish when he goes to the coast yet opines that swimming pools may give his
boy hole an infection. I know right! And you thought gay men don’t have
issues!
New Year’s Eve
8 P.M. It’s a
dimly lit tavern with raucous patrons who are mostly older men with just a
handful of women conspicuous. The four plus size women prominently seated
adjacent to the entrance to the rear end of the bar in some sort of
anticipation regard us warily. My bladder is full and I need to take a leak! I
make a mental note of the aged man seated in a rickety plastic seat just
outside the men’s washroom. ‘Well?’
Mungai excitedly asks me when I join him on the table he’s selected for us.
It’s next to the ladies’ washroom with only a wooden barricade separating us. Just Great. I’m hesitant to sit on the
black dilapidated seat that reeks of a dry concoction of cum and sweat. I
closely inspect it for any creepy-crawly stuff or such related things. Mungai notices
my uneasiness and offers me his seat. I nonetheless settle on mine because his
looks like something that has a serious rat invasion. I’m absentmindedly reminded
of someone who’s sells butt insurance.
The waiters are
taking inordinately long to get to our table. ‘Ũhoro’. I greet the visibly irate bald man in a light brown half
sweater standing next to the butchery staring at us. He remains quiet and
doesn’t bat an eyelid. I later on came to find out that his belligerence was
because he thought I was a new boy whore and according to Reke Marie
grapevine he doesn’t like being ordered around by boys. Listen dude, we are all
whores, the only difference lies in our availability and where we go for it. Period.
A group of young
men before us have arranged their tables (that remind you of the ones in a
makeshift chemistry lab in some dingy school in Karachuonyo) in a boardroom format. On the face of it, it looks
like they are having a great time. The two men in a table on Mungai’s right
hand occasionally steal glances at us as they consult in hushed tones. One of
them is chocolate complexioned his short sleeved shirt slightly exposing his sternum.
For a moment I assume it’s his idea of fashion only to realize he’s missing a
third button. A man dressed in
black fitting pants, a white short sleeved shirt and a black half sweater with
a badge on his breast pocket carrying a metallic tray corroded on the sides is attending
to the boardroom table. Mungai snaps
his fingers summoning him insensitive to his current engagement. He briskly walks
to our table. ‘Ndehera Krest.’ (Get
me some Krest) Mungai tells him. ‘Cigana?’
(How many) he asks. I signal two with my fingers as I hand him a two hundred
shillings note. On his way, he clears the table next to us. Three men previously
seated next to the fast food restaurant with a Menu displayed on the wall have
joined the two gentlemen. The old man who was seated next to the men’s
washrooms walks to their table and asks them to leave if they have no business.
I immediately gather he’s the resident sentinel. Their bloodshot eyes regard
him with contempt. There’s only an empty bottle of sprite on the table. At the
same time I see Makau, a character whose mugshot is common in tabloids allegedly as a
blackmailer. I’m beginning to love the vantage that comes with this sitting position after all.
*******
It’s not as filthy
as the first time when Mungai was giving me a reconnaissance of this place. – I
was so freaked out with all the stares we were getting pretending to be looking
for someone. Even as Mungai sucked on his lollipop from Santa’s grotto with the
complete experience of a whore who has charged exact fees for giving head
telling me to follow him, I’d not only spotted a young man one of my friends
had previously introduced me to as his potential mate being seduced by a man
who was noticeably past his bedtime but also got smiled at by a bald
clean shaven man. It is this experience that buttressed my return to get a
story – The men’s washroom is divided into subsections two whose functions I
can’t immediately place. As soon as you pass the guard who in most times hovers
at its entrance, you directly spot a damp empty space (no door). I see the
short young man in a white top who’d greeted us earlier make a phone call. He’s
not talking but looks fidgety walking all around the space. I turn to my left heading
to where the urinal is. There are at least two men doing their thing. One or two
doors on my right are partially open. I assume they are the spaces where one
takes a dump due to the pungent smell emanating there from. Then just next to
the urinal is another space like the first. Maybe
these are bathrooms. I whisper this to myself as I do my thing at the
urinal until I see a man in a white turban on his head, brown stained but
fitting white pants carrying a green polythene bag whose contents is suspect
standing inside but facing the wall. It's a dark space so I can’t make out
whether it’s an extension of the urinal or just space. But then the urinal is quite free.
It’s then that I belatedly realize he’s jerking off with his right hand. As I
shake my junk after use according to the men’s washroom custom, I notice the
slightly tall, light skinned man with a mature face donned in a brown jacket staring. He
winks at me nudging me to look on at the turban fellow. I zip up and walk back
to the bar. The guard regards me suspiciously.
******
The bar is now noisier
and reeks of tobacco. Some patrons are smoking themselves like chimneys
reminding you of the award winning Mad Men series where smoking is like
blinking an eye. A man in white stained overalls that bear a faded writing of ‘Farmers Choice’ on his back carrying an
old casserole, walks to our table, ‘Sausage
na Samosa!’ He announces his wares. Mungai and I ward him off in chorus and
continue speaking loudly in something between edited English and Swahili after
we discovered the men on the next table were trying to eavesdrop into our
conversation. The waiter returns with half a litre of sodas and still bears a
balance. I laugh and immediately ask for the price of beers. No wonder everyone
comes here…then goes to Envy and such other places.
One of the men
in the neighboring table surveys where the guard is. He picks the empty Sprite
bottle and rushes to the tank to draw some water then returns with it full and
sits as though he’s just ordered a new drink. Another casually dressed man
walks towards us with a black briefcase and when he opens it, it reveals some
hardware tools namely screwdrivers, spanners, pliers, small hammers, nails,
screws etc. It is in that moment I recall we were never frisked when walking
in. I start fearing for our safety. A full-bosomed woman with colossal buttocks
(clearly her future is behind her) is trying to make a quick sale of some textile
to some elderly men and it seems not to yield much success. She gets close to
our table and I decide to have a look at them despite Mungai’s reservations. ‘Ntakuuzia 450.’ She tells me the price as
I feel their texture and goes on explaining their use et al. I compliment her
efforts and tell her I’ll pick them some other day. She leaves her wares next
to me as she dashes to the women’s washroom just behind the wall. Trust. I hear some women hurling
profanities at each other on the other end. I see the turban man and the light
skinned fellow I left at the washroom finally leaving. What took them so long? Someone probably had to grab a wall.
A thin young man
with short relaxed hair, a discolored black T-shirt that has elements of frou-
frou on Mickey Mouse’s wife’s headband, some pallid fitting three quarter pants
that resemble women’s pedal pushers and a swollen man bag (whose contents are
left to my imagination) walks past the limping guy who’s walking away from the
neighboring table where everyone somehow reports to before they leave. Mungai
had whispered to me that the guy probably took in so much than he could handle
hence the limp. Homosexuals and their
obsession with big dicks! He’s singing some Taarab music. He reaches the
next table, hugs selected people and smiles at Mungai and I who have been
caught staring. I look away but hear him asking whether any of them has seen
the Samosa guy in some Coastal brogue. He flirtingly asks a dark skinned man
for some coins, abandons his bag and goes hunting for the snacks. I notice the
fast food restaurant on the extreme end of the bar is closing. Another hawker
comes bearing a display full of gold and silver coated chains, watches and
other second hand trinkets. He insists on remaining on our table. ‘Indo
icio nĩ njega’ (You got great stuff there). I flatter him just to get him off our case. The Taarab singing
boy comes back to the table, his right hand holding a serviette bearing a
sweet-smelling beef samosa, his left wrist dangles displaying his rubber
bracelets, two resembling the ones I saw a hawker vending just a few blocks
while coming here and two with the colours of the rainbow. He takes a seat and
continues singing. He’s interrupted by the dude missing the third button on his
shirt trying to draw his attention to some neatly dressed young man in black
trousers and a green shirt bending next to the tank with the short guy making an imaginary phone call from earlier. It appears he’s
cleaning something off his groin. I instantly imagine it’s dry cum.
Cum cures Flu?
With the old
guard now making small talk with some fellow elderly man at the entrance to
this rear end of the joint, traffic to the men’s washroom has increased. It
is like some sort fundamental necessary traffic for both tall and short
men, thin, average, fat, pot bellied, gray haired, black haired and bald men.
When Mungai was giving me the Do’s and Don’ts of Reke Marie, he’d warned me not
to ask for a glass so I religiously kept off my Tonic and lemon slices order. I
later learnt that young men have in the past sneaked to the bathroom with half
glasses of beer, jerk off in them and then bring the flavored mixture to the
old men who say it’s a good cure for cold or an old man’s throat – All for a
consideration.
The gangster
looking man from earlier with baby locks, dry lips, a rough face and a dirty
rucksack hauled on his right shoulder comes back with a pretty boy who by my
standards is so put together to be in this shithole. I mean, his shirt is
buttoned to the top, has a decent cardigan on and wears fitting spectacles that
make him instantly look intelligent. He also has that humble good boy
disposition. The guy allows him to pass and then takes a seat in such a way to
show, you can’t reach my baby without passing through me. Aww…how sweet. I get it. The thug's probably got game!
The smartly
dressed guy who was wiping something off his groin shakes our hands. I have
just learnt he’s heading for a church vigil to usher in the New Year. The
Taarab boy opens his bag, whisks out lip balm and does his impromptu beauty
routine then stands up and in his coastal accent bids everyone bye saying he’s
gotten business. I watch him leave the joint with some elderly man. Lucky he,
at least they aren’t going to the rooms upstairs where one pays decently for only twenty
minutes worth of a fuck. Upon Mungai’s influence, my eyes shift from them to a
man seated on the far end: White polo shirt, a matching white beret and a bright
face sipping a huge bottle of Pilsner beer with his old friend. He’s probably
bald but still remains elegant while at it. He’s also looking at me directly
even as he converses with his companion! ‘Nĩ
Muhiũ’ (He’s hot). I tell Mungai. “Cole
the man has been staring at you for a while, maybe you should go say hi.” He
prods further as he excuses himself to head to the washrooms. I notice the
guard is now standing at the washroom’s entrance to ensure no one overstays his
visit. Shit is real!
A tall man in a grey
hooded jacket walks towards my table. I can’t easily make out his face. He
comes and unapologetically pulls Mungai’s seat and joins the reporting table.
They receive him with some vestige of importance. I continue my thing with the
newfound eye candy who is now swirling his finger on the table with our eyes firmly
fixed on each other. Mungai returns and stands on my right as his seat is
taken. He urges us to leave. My eyes stay put on the beret man. The hooded man
must have looked up at him, ‘What are you
doing here!’ Mungai exclaims the shrill in his voice sounding like he’s
just met former president Kibaki having a whitecap at Reke Marie. I look up and
notice its well, Denis Nzioka. Fuck!
*******
As we sashay out of the joint, I’m feigning
obliviousness to the eyes that are escorting my ass out of the watering hole.
One of the plus size women is in a heated argument with an inebriated man.
She’s holding out a five hundred shilling note saying it is not sufficient. I almost agree with her. Dude's face ain't worth it unless she'll be attacking the base. The guard is escorting a young man who is ostensibly hesitant to leave the tank
area back to the bar. Is this what he
does every day? Does he have family to go back to at his age? What are some of
the disturbing things he’s seen in this washroom he heavily guards more than
the entrance? A man who seemingly has a date with one of the boardroom
table members is impatiently scrolling on his phone; little does he know his
date has been in the washrooms for the past twenty minutes when he finally
joins him, the gangsta's arms rest on the shoulder of his put together
beau as he puffs away, a dark man in a white sleeveless top continuously pats the shoulders of
the old man who Mungai has been ignoring the whole evening. They all look happy.
Content even. They are unaffected by the outsiders’ opinion because they live
up to one unifying melody: Let them Talk!
Cole
Next Week on C.D.R:
The Fap’ Depot…