Editor drugged, robbed, left nude in a ditch by a city hooker?

If, indeed, it’s hard being a man, then it’s a scandal being a bachelor. Girls, you just have no idea. So listen up. Years back, while at my local bar, I noticed the contents of the bottle I was sipping from had dangerously diminished, and I had no intention of replenishing it. I took the last sips with one thing on my mind — my tired bones resting in my bed. Just when I was planning to leave, a devastatingly beautiful woman who, I suspect, had been sizing me up from afar sauntered by. With the politeness of a nun who had just taken a day off at the nunnery, she requested to join my table — as if I owned the place. I mean, which man says no to a woman so hot and shy like a lizard? Her smile, lovely. The size and shape of her posterior? Ngai fafa! Let’s not even go there. She planted herself in an unoccupied seat at the table I was sitting at. She asked that I buy her a bottle of beer. Which, of course, I did. I mean, Sh250 is not money a man of my calibre would whine about. Minutes later, she began regaling me with long-winded tales about herself. Mark you I’m a journalist, and my experienced eyes and ears can tell a lie or a crook kilometres away. Her tales, made up. Personality, needy. Eyes, shifty. Mind, on my money. Her English, suspect. Her Kiswahili, bogus. But heck, who speaks fluently and eloquently in bars — anyway? “Wow, interestingly, all the guys I know called Tony are always hot,” she lied through the teeth without batting an eyelid. I giggled. Obviously, sheepishly. “I like your moustache. Mhhh, nice side burns,” she went on. I gulped my drink, looking into the distance as if studying the bugger who was choking his woman on the dance floor, in the name of dancing. “Nice leather jacket, you got there,” she was at it — again. “Oh, and what’s your name by the way?” I mumbled. Not that I really cared. It’s just that it was getting a bit boring, sitting there, receiving compliments as I approvingly nodded my head — constantly — like a goat. Her name, suspect. Which Kenyan is born Shantel Natasha, with a heavy Central Kenya accent? Maybe, just maybe, she thought I was new in Nairobi. Or, she imagined, I was born the other day. At some point, she mentioned she is a university graduate. Of course, I jerked upright and looked at her with renewed interest. Wife material, perhaps? I mused. I mean, which bachelor wants a dunderhead for a wife? Of course, not me! Unfortunately, her stories were not adding up, and here I was almost high as a kite. Big mistake. At some point, my journalistic instinct warned me: “Kijana, if you continue hanging around here, entertaining this character, nodding your head like a goat and giggling like a lunatic, your drink will be spiked. And you will wake up three days later — butt naked — in a ditch somewhere in Nairobi’s Kinoo or Mwihoko. Or better yet, in your house, looted clean.” By the time she was saying, “Can we exchange phone contacts?” She was actually talking to my back. My friend, things bachelors go through are mind boggling. Flip over to the main feature to read more on the agony of being a bachelor.