"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
