At this time three years ago, I was a happy man. I was in a stable relationship with a damsel I loved to bits and was just beginning to live my dreams; I couldn’t have asked for anything else. I even stopped following actress Megan Good on Instagram and believe me that was a huge sacrifice, given what that woman does to me. All was well.
Until that brisk Sunday afternoon; I had just taken a cold shower and was preparing to attend this hip hop event a friend had invited me to at Sarakasi Dome, Ngara, Nairobi. Then she texted. It wasn’t one of her usual cheery “Hey boo. I miss you. What are you up to?” texts.
No. This one was cold. Curt. “We need to talk.” I will spare you the details because I’m struggling to beat a word limit here; all you need to know is that she had met someone else. Someone she loved. Someone who loved her back more than I ever could. He was of South African descent. And he drove a Blue Subaru Legacy.
I moved on. I never really talked much about it after that. But a few celebrity situations in the past couple of years have caused me to reflect. For instance, I once read about singer Emmy Kosgei getting married to a certain Nigerian pastor almost double my old man’s age. And they called it love.
Allure of foreign men
I also read somewhere that it was some West African oil tycoon bankrolling Vera Sidika’s larger-than-life lifestyle. Chic posts flashy new pictures every second on Instagram like it’s her job, yet she can still afford a half-a-million-shilling weave, a quarter-million-shilling pair of heels, supposed fifty-million-shilling skin-lightening surgery, three nights at the prestigious Villa Rosa Kempinski and a holiday in Dubai — if gossip sites are anything to go by these days.
Then I read again that one of my celebrity crushes, Habida, had said “Yes” to an Igbo mister and relocated to the West; that Avril has committed to a Zulu man and wedding bells are lurking in the shadows and that Jolene of Tahidi High had received a brand new Kompressor as a birthday present from her South African sweetheart.
I read in silence. Profound— albeit disturbed — silence. And I wondered what it was that these bozos had that we, Kenyan men, didn’t. I wondered what it was that was driving our lovely women away from their motherland to foreigners. I wondered what a loud guy with an accent sounding like he had just swallowed a live frog and it peed in his mouth could possibly do/say to my woman to make her walk out my door and straight into his arms.
The ladies told me we don’t treat them right, that our Oga brodas are as romantic as it gets. And I retorted that I know I’m a douche myself, but even then, I pull out the seat for my dates every once in a while. And I’m a broke, good-for-nothing son of a mere high school teacher, but I’ve once hired a taxi to and from a date. Come to think of it, I never even got laid that night. Women! Huh!
Some told me it was about the money; that our pockets just aren’t deep enough. Or that we are too mean to go all out. To these women, I told the story of a certain Phil [not his real name], a former campus chum of mine who moved his beloved out of the institution hostels into her own fully-furnished, two-bedroom apartment. With a 42’ inch flat screen television, state of the art sound system et al. She had these outrageous demands, which Phil tried his best to meet.
He dropped by unannounced one weekend and found her entertaining another man, all over the couch he had bought with his HELB money. That was the ‘thank you’ he got. He came to me seeking a solution and I remembered that one time he refused to buy me a bottle of beer. He spent that money on the very girl who had now broken his heart.
So I said good riddance and reminded him about the unwritten rule of bro’s before *you know what*. He broke my nose with a single swing. I didn’t care. I know I’m a bad friend. But you just do not refuse to buy me a beer then expect me to mourn with you. Karma is two-faced ugly *again, you know what* son!
Lack of gratitude
When I thought really hard about it, I realised that maybe we weren’t the ones with the problem. It could just as easily be the women.
See, dating a modern day Kenyan girl is as demanding as it is tiring. You’d think you were pulling an unmoving truck glued to your bottom. You go out of your way to make her happy but for her lack of gratitude, she will never acknowlege your efforts.
It will always start slow; you on your best behaviour and she playing ridiculously hard to get. You will take her to lunch, probably at Galitos (because that’s where all the ‘cool cats are’); buy her chocolates and ice cream on her birthday; take her for evening coffee at Gibson’s; meet her friends and act like you’re the nicest character on earth, tolerating all their bull$#!t and non-stop gossip; you will even take her out once in a while for a good time, where you may end up spending much more than you bargained for ‘cause these girls “don’t do cheap liquor” then hire a cab and drop her drunken butt back home as you walk.
‘Used and dumped’
Then she will begin feeling and hanging around you more; getting touchy-freely with you all the time, calling you sweet names. The goodnight hugs will turn into pecks and then, with time, full-blown kisses.
Then she will finally open the doors of her kingdom and you will slide in majestically, almost like a veteran soldier heading out to war with a Third World country, with the precision of a butcher.
She will moan and scream your name with a few inferences to the glorious Man Above and you will feel accomplished, proud and more like a man than you ever had before. And a voice inside you will— almost boastfully— say. “Yes, say my name, Baby. Say my name. You smart. You loyal!”
She will agree to a relationship the next morning. Count yourself lucky if she doesn’t ask the one question no man wants to hear after a romp. Ati, “So what are we?” To which my response is always BFFs (best friends forever). I’ve been punched by a lady before though, so gentlemen don’t try this at home. I know enough men who have been used and dumped.
A couple months or so into the relationship and all hell will break loose. She sees you talking to another mami for two seconds and she goes red. You don’t pick her calls, even if you were just in the bathroom, and it’s World War III. You can’t go out with your boys as much anymore; she says she should be your number one priority, and that she deserves your undivided attention.
Always criticising, fault-finding
No matter what you do, she will always find a way to carve an argument out of it. You will do your best to make her happy but it will never be enough. She will even start comparing your relationship to that of her neighbour Tim and best friend Daisy, yeah, the same one who opens her legs to anything that drives and has an ATM card.
She will want you to take her shopping, to the salon, even to the market. Not because she fancies your company these days, only so you pay for anything she sets her evil eyes on; Which is — basically — everything. See, I’ve come to realise that MOST Kenyan ladies are lazy gold-digging twats. Again, I said MOST...chill out Kilimani Mums.
Neediness and gold-digging
And that is why even a bigwig will say ‘Yes’ to any man so long as he can charter a helicopter for a whole weekend to Mt Kenya. Kenyan ladies want to secure their futures (which is not a bad thing, depending on how you look at it). It’s never just about loving or caring about her anymore. It’s now about what you bring to the table; even if she brings nothing herself. Leeches!
Now as far as I’m concerned, Kenyan men are trying. Kenyan men are working their bums off, feeding bimbos who do nothing but sit around in the house all day wearing yoga pants. We’re holding up our ends of the bargain. Then these very lazy, needy nitwits will be the first to walk out the door at the tiniest sign of trouble, throwing all the blame on the poor guy – and jumping into the arms of the next rich bozo that comes along.
There are Kenyan women who know the real meaning of the overused word ‘hustle’. Those who understand the struggle that comes with paying their own rent. But there’s the vast majority that just wants to be fed off someone else’s sweat with silver spoons.
I have said it before and have no trouble saying it again; gentlemen, you are wasting your time if you’re going out with a woman who won’t even pay her own bus fare; order herself the first drink at a club; buy you a mere 200-shilling-watch on your birthday but will be so quick to send you a reminder — two weeks before her own birthday — about that necklace you promised her; and a woman that, in this age and era, still texts you silly messages like “duuuhhh (or is it, daahhh?)”, “OMG”, “Xaxa” and “K”. There you have it ladies. Kenyan men are not the problem, you are!