Babylon: Where a Crotch gets Grabbed!

"My love life is like a piece of Swiss cheese. Most of it is missing, and what's there stinks." – Joan Rivers (1933 - 2014)

December 2006

Friday afternoon or thereabout; The Church is quiet as the preacher hammers final words of scripture to the folk on the pew – I included. The sermon has largely dwelled on the book of Job. His associate pastor, an attractive Caucasian man probably in his late twenties is perched on a seat in the dais his hands occasionally in the air when his principal hammers something profound. The church’s senior pastor even earlier reached for a microphone and said “Sometimes God disorganizes you in order to reorganize you!” a remark that was received by cheers and ululation with some members of the congregation even giving a standing ovation their hands suspended in the air in some sort of surrender with their heads up looking to some higher being.

They are guests who have been thoroughly marketed in a local Gospel radio station for the past fortnight. Anointed evangelists from the USA they said. Having just finished secondary school recently with nothing to do but while away time watching movies and playing games, I requested my uncle for bus fare to go for this convention of great import. Perhaps it’s my saving grace from the jaws of homosexuality I have been battling since I was 8. The church chorister urges us to pick the hymn books conveniently located in front of us and start singing. I notice I don’t have a copy but the screens will do. “Onward Christian Soldiers marching unto thee…” as the speaker makes an alter call for anyone who has strayed and needs prayers. The associate pastor brings two unlabeled bottles of oil and places them on a glass coffee table next to the main speaker. He removes his coat which an usher is too swift to collect from him and conveniently places it in a hangar next to his now vacated seat. He folds the sleeves of his blue cotton shirt. I notice he has a very broad chest and the fitting shirt accentuates his masculine features. My eyes make for his groin but I instantly curse myself for such unholy thoughts towards a man of God. Focus Cole, focus. This is the your big day. The pastor is powerful and will from now on give you a license to fuck cunts…

Women are writhing on the floor chanting unintelligible words, some are still falling upon the pastors touching them with oily hands but the ushers hold them so that they don’t meet the impact underfoot. A dark woman in a bright coloured dress is prayed for, the pastor’s hands lightly on her bosom. For a moment she’s asked to go to the washroom at the back of the church. My wandering thoughts are interrupted by a scream from the washroom. She comes out chanting like the rest who are now rising and heading back to their seats. The main speaker announces that she had a lump and the woman confirms it’s gone. She bursts out in tears of joy, oily hands are laid on her head and she goes down gracefully the speaker holding her until she’s on the floor muttering words only her lump less self can understand. Maybe this is my cue. The associate speaker approaches my seat, an usher flanked on his right carrying the bottle of oil. I am the only one standing on the edge of the bench as everyone seems to have gone for the oil treatment. The closest that oil should come to me is unless you are lubricating me and your rod for the ensuing action. Fuck, focus Cole! “What’s your name?” He asks. I notice he has a pair of striking azure eyes! “Er…I’m Co..le” I stammer, smitten. “The Holy Ghost directs me that you came here for a solution in your life…” Silence. “Do you want to see the hand of the Lord, Cole?” I nod. The usher pours a portion of the oil on his hands. He rubs them lightly, placing them on my head and starts praying. His words move from his nice Texan drawl to some language not comprehensible in the common tongues. So we are the Dothraki now? I raise my hands hoping to hasten the deliverance. I open my eyes; his eyes are closed as he energetically chants things I don’t comprehend. I shut my eyes. Am I feeling light-headed? But I am still aware of my surroundings. There’s no way I’m falling lest I mess my white jumper. He gives me a slight tip backward. I easily give away but the usher is swift enough to hold me in place to ensure my head doesn’t meet the ground. I am on the floor, my eyes stare at the roof of this Church blankly. I feel even emptier than I came. I feel a tinge of regret. I even feel fucking horny!

*******

Behind The Scenes

1. Boy, haven’t I missed you! Now where do I start? Let’s see. Joan Rivers passed on. I felt so sad over the loss of this comedienne old girl. I think we all need to have a tinge of sassy like her. She will be missed, indeed. 

2. Don’t get me started on that Anaconda Video by Nicky Minaj. Whoa! One of you opines that he has been scarred for life and that the Israelites didn’t go through the wilderness for 40 years for this. Well, I have personally been playing it I think almost for the twentieth time now and the only thing that the same seems to have informed me is that I am getting better by the day in this twerking business. Of course I only twerk in the house. Too bad I still have to do it against an object (Now don’t get any ideas, I’m talking about the couch, the door, the sink et al) Another thing, if you twerk and notice there is no ‘that brief bounce’ aftermath on your buns, I think you ought to go silicon if not for relevance in this volatile ass market but in the memory of Joan.

3. Dead Beat Kenya – another first from Kenya! So women have now taken to shaming dead beat dads online. I swear get out of this country even for a day, you come back and you’ve missed some very vital grapevine. That our social media habits reputation precedes us world over is not in doubt. The only thing I would say at this point is, if Dead Beat Kenya and roasting states and individuals through our #SomeoneTell hash tags is what it takes to unite us as a Country, then let it be.

*******

 The ferry ride to Kigamboni was great despite having an argument with some port officials for taking photos. Kinondoni is just so vast that I now understand why Lady Jay Dee couldn’t find “Yahaya”. I mean it’s a whole municipality and here I was thinking it’s some place like Zimmerman or Ruaka. The Dar es Salaam morning traffic was appalling even though we had managed to leave our kind host’s residence at Masaki at 6.30 in the morning. Got to love the standard and stable bus fare prices. Shit, now was it Msalani or Msasani Peninsula? You know what? It’s never that serious. This is the same land where all the Swahili I have ever learnt was trashed in a minute and the rest of the days I was resolved to speak English and extremely fast to prove disassociation. 

A view of Dar while heading to Kigamboni

The day was somewhat redeemed by a Bajaj to sea cliff and the walk along the clean Coco Beach where we embarked on an amateur photo shoot, climbing cliffs, stripping half naked (to take photos), just watching folk swim. Stumbling into couples in very coital positions within the caves created by large coral reefs and having to smile as a gesture of apology even though I approved; What? I strongly support anything that leads someone into getting an orgasm and if crabs biting your butt and disappearing in the sand is what gets you moaning, go for it baby! That reminds me, the other day I was on this date and the guy was telling me how he’s proficient when it comes to sex on the beach. The best I could muster in rejoinder was that I love anything that gives me pleasure down there but sand is definitely not one of the things I would want down the length of my gut.

I digress. There were also those two young guys smoking weed and stole looks our way as we passed them. We fortuitously got on a cliff above them and the moment we saw one of them ass (sic) halfway out of his boxers we sought our leave to a more “viewer friendly” photo position and that included bending under some thorny shrub and a cactus plant all the while stepping on used condoms, thongs, panties, boxers, sandals…Chile, the things that happen on a beach!  

The budget Fastjet Boeing plane taxis to a halt at a chilly and overcast Kilimanjaro International Airport around four minutes past seven. Mungai and I had nursed serious joint pains after the 10 hour bus ride on Dar Express two days ago. We are literally sleep walking from the plane towards the Airport complex because we had to wake up in the wee hours of the morning to get to Julius Nyerere Airport on time. It is all sleep and crawling until this family decides to request me to be their Camera man, a responsibility I acquiesce only because of the size and sharpness of the camera handed to me. (Kindly note my _^th birthday is fast approaching) As the large Caucasian family recite me their thanks, a lone traveler hands over his Tablet for me to do the needful. It is a lackluster piece of gadget that I have to struggle to find focus. He raises his tone of voice as he tries to explain to me its machinations. I intuitively gather he’s from Uganda going by his brogue who probably thinks I’m being crass.

I wake up as the driver pulls up the driveway. My phone picks up the Wi-Fi signal as soon as we are in the warmth of – our host – Bernard’s residence delivering a one day old miserable Grindr message from the Australian I canceled on at the Bay Leaf the evening before heading to Dar. Seriously though, why do guys catch feelings when you tell them you just fancied a conversation when they’ve planned an elaborate “getting some” scheme that you were totally clueless about! Online dating and its intrigues, SMH!

A view while abode a fixed fare dala dala

It is a dim lit club bustling with little activity, the deejay occasionally making a jest or two to a patron as he continues playing the predominantly Swahili Playlist.

“I’m Alfred”. This tall, slim, chocolate complexioned guy twink announces as he joins our table flanked by a dark, middle aged guy with a thick local accent who is a mutual friend of Mungai’s. Let’s call him Mishono for purposes of this article. I introduce my name to Alfred over four times and shortly give up in my efforts reluctantly adopting my new name “Koli”. Bernard whispers in my ear, “Koli, welcome to Tanzania.” He then bites into a saucy chicken leg still grinning.

Chips Mayai - Mungai breaking his fast at Kariakoo

As the waiter scurries about for drinks, I make an observation on the walls and notice the suggestive art in one section of the walls. I should remember to get a topless woman portrait too for my bedroom. We dance to the music that ought to be danced to. Mungai twerks getting us instant attention on our table including a plus size lady seated next to a man who looks like he has endured a lot in the hands of women who raises a bottle to us. I raise mine up and smile. She returns the smile. Mungai’s attention seeking frolics are shadowed by two skimpily dressed women who were only a peek shy of their wares underneath and had buns of booty trailing behind them. All the men including myself escorted them with ogles. “Damn, now those are twin futures behind them”. I state loudly one of my eyebrows instantly up. Alfred and a guy in a blue sweater and a scarf hovering around our table smile as he walks on. Mishono asks whether I know him, I instantly tell him I know no one in this place.

Mt. Meru, the daughter to Mt. Kilimanjaro

Having been notified prior that Babylon is a cruising spot, I remove my coat and stand to dance. You never know, the love of your life may just be found in this place. I make a mental note of two very hot guys who have been sitting together like forever since we joined the club. You know the hot you really hope to report on Dead Beat Kenya just to showcase how fine your offspring are? Then there is the trio on the high table that faced the portrait of the topless woman looking at a waterfall from a patio; career men probably in their mid thirties who had been staring our way the moment they entered and part of my dancing was in the spirit of impressing one. The one with a good smile and very sharp eyes and it is good I did, he made good audience – Not the buns though. I think they were largely bisexual and/or bi–curious because all the gorgeous women who went up to them begging for a dance were politely turned away. The object of my dreams walked towards the washroom. “Bernard, can you escort me to the washroom?” “Koli, you’ll be safe besides my gift to you is there.” Shit! Wading through this crowd will be a nightmare. What if I’m raped in there? Not that I have a problem with it, I mean, I don’t have condoms. “Koli, ntakupereka (Cole, I’ll take you)” the twink who had been chatting animatedly on his Smartphone since he got here (that I later learned was bought by a man) offers.  Just Great!

“How do I find you when I come to Nairobi?” Mishono asks. He has since been abandoned by Alfred who has since traded numbers and is more excited chatting to Mungai, their conversation somewhat involving Mungai going to his radio show to talk about Love and such other topics. While heading to the washroom, he had delayed us making me lose my object of the night as he flirted away with a tall attractive man with unkempt hair and all the while I was wondering why he was being shy yet he was looking at the outline of the guy’s dick! The ladies’ was signified by a red thong and the men’s a checked pair of boxers so I left him to his devices to go take a leak but he was waiting for me outside when I came out. He was glowing. 

“Just talk to Mungai. When you find him, chances are that I’m in his vicinity and only a phone call away.” I respond to Mishono. I have since gathered he is a Kenyan. “Where do you live?”  He asks and I belatedly notice he’s actually flirting with me and may be scheduling a date as he can’t host (Mungai has surreptitiously indicated his family obligations back home). In the words of the late Joan, my b*gina has been dry but there was no way I was going to spread my legs for this man.

The night urges us on. Somebody is wrestling with a crocodile on Natgeo in a screen next to the doorway, at some point Mungai and I are outdoing each other on Dar Mpaka Moro by TMK Wanaume making homies wonder why we are so excited about the song. At some point everyone is standing animatedly singling along to Kigoma, leka dutigite… The guy in a scarf fervently trying to emphasize for me the words. He knows I am foreign. Damn, have we really painted this place Pink! A tall, slim man approaches Mungai from behind and just when I am having nefarious thoughts, joins this voluptuous woman whose ass was literally on Mishono’s face and in a tiny black and white outfit you wonder how she stuffed all that meat in there. Chris Brown’s Hoes Ain’t Loyal starts playing almost immediately. I swear in another life, Babylon is a den of whores. This girl was just one masterpiece to behold. Oh, and her boobs were so far apart, I guess they talk to each other via Skype! 

The deejay decides to involve patrons to sing for some chic Happy Birthday making some of us depart our makeshift dance floor. I have never been more than convinced to explore my deejaying plans after my postgraduate studies. Seriously though, isn’t that why we have cake houses! The object of my dreams smiles when he sees how irate we are throwing our arms in disappointment making for our seats waiting for the subjected agony to end. Just as I’m about to sit, the scarf guy grabs my crotch. Fuck!

Bernard explains that maybe I should ‘get friendly’ tonight with the crotch grabber citing among other things that the guy may have a trust fund. I disown his wild thoughts and tell him, trust fund guys rarely grab pretty boys’ crotches in clubs. I see him being led out by one of the Club’s well built bouncers. Maybe he grabbed a crotch with a trust fund. I smile to myself. The bill is soon brought by the curvy waiter and it’s of several thousand Tanzanian shillings but Mungai and Mishono settle it promptly with wads of bills. When I get my calculator to do the crazy currency conversion, I am surprised and even the waiter smiles. Nairobians would be hangovered daily if they were ever to set foot here.

 

Mishono and Alfred beg to leave shortly thereafter. Alfred, being the chatterbox he is, intimated that they were meeting for the first time and we had been a positive distraction. At least Mishono would be getting some tonight. I think to myself. As soon as they leave, the crotch grabber is back and walks to our table to shake hands. The heifer makes a sexual indication with his middle finger against the palm of my hand. I notice he is a handsome guy but not a person I would ordinarily notice. So much baby fat here and there. If he has a trust fund he should probably treat the entire club, may be then most people would be willing to allow their crotches grabbed. He bows his head respectfully and leaves to join a group of young men dancing at the far corner. I notice the two hot guys are leaving. Hmm.

Bernard consults us on whether we want to stay or  should we also depart considering the Manyara road trip on the morrow. We settle for the latter. I raise my head up and notice the object of my dreams patting the shoulder of his inebriated light skinned friend as he stands facing the direction of the washrooms. Our eyes momentarily meet but we each look away. He has all the features (physical of course except the…) I’m looking for in a man but… I excuse myself to go to the washroom. Ben smiles at my pristine confidence. Mungai sashays to the dance floor his hands up in the air like me and those members of the congregation at NPC eight years ago in some sort of worship when Davido’s Aye starts playing. He’s half crazy that one. 

The Lake Manyara Experience...

The washroom is abuzz with activity mostly men making phone calls and some in the urinal. I go to the one next to him. He looks up. He has dark eyes and is pleasantly buffed. I notice I’m an elfin in his presence. I give a wry but official smile with a slight head bow to express geniality. A guy known to him walks in and they exchange a loud banter. Lord, his voice! For a moment I think I hear a voice ask me “Do you want to see the hands of the my loins…” I wash my hands and face at the sink and pat it dry on the mirror next to the doors just to linger a while, of course overhearing the conversation. When I’m done and ready to exit, I notice he’s also at the door. He opens and holds the door and in that deep Tanzanian Swahili accent says, “Baada yako (after you)… ”

*******

I guess I was delivered after all.

Cole