BLACK DICKS WHITE MASKS

If you want to begrudge me my pseudo-intellectualism, you can call me Frantz FuckOn. But in England living the Kenyan- bugger flippin’-buck chasin’-illegal immigrant-Vumilia Diaspora- dream, they called me some’ else. I was Kabaka Shaka Zulu Asantehene III. (Please note that there is no Chief Someshit or other; the heck, all those hustler Naija Brodas is Chief this or that giving African Royalty a scummy sceptre.)

Anyway, people had to get my name right; after all, you would be screaming it out loud all night. Yeah, louder than my Bob Marley CD in your- garage/ drum ‘n’ bass- battered sound system.
I used to tell them that ogashala is the Bantu word for: I am coming...! I don’t know what the fuck Bantu is but it has that Old Africa primitivism ring to it, innit? Exotic.

You know, the only thing that is better than new sex is exotic sex; the sound of a fuckee grunting in a Star-Warish dialect.

Yeah, so sometimes I’d be there moaning: obamanashantashantai, which is something I had a jet-set pastor say just before he took my 50 Grand in exchange for an invitation to a sham convention in the UK. (Visa Tip Kenyans... au sio?)

Ala... si now they remembered my name. It was the reason they woke up with a sore throat in the morning. Eish, si you know the occupational hazard of sleeping with Africans is that you always pick some infection or other; why would this Mandingo Warrior disappoint? Yeah, Kabaka Shaka Zulu Asantehene III was the human carrier of a strange strain of sore throat that hit the British Isles a while back. I cannot quite recall but I think the outbreak made the BBC Newsnight.

Well, that was payback for catching Jungle Fever, but where did it all begin? Let me take you back... Back to Ancien Regime Nairobi:

If Helen of Troy was an insurmountable beauty, then Helena G__ was her progeny. I thrust the gates of my life open for her but she was a Trojan horse with a nymphet inside. She taught me how to prostate myself before the temple of Diana; Gaia; the entire gynocentric pantheon. The Yonic Deities!

Helena was a Greek goddess and her temple was her Vagina; there I took my burnt-rubber offering. Dude, a Trust condom can wrap a gift fit for a goddess!

On the first day I introduced her to Dakimu- that is my male member- the look on her face was that of a New York girl before the baboon cage at the Bronx Zoo. Eish, Dakimu gave her mad vaginismus, but I was willing to wait till Christmas. That would be in two weeks. Wapi...! On Christmas day she gave me a hand-job and dragged me off to church. I was miffed. But then again she was Greek; she could reconcile herself to the idea of a pantheon: God, Dick, Man. Holy Trinity? Who knows... but the next day she took my virginity!

Then there was the French girl. She had a name like a mzungu dinner and wore nothing but pheromones. Frenchie had a butterfly tattoo on her pubis. I kissed it. ‘Chouchou,’ I cooed, ‘Samburu is the Samburu word for butterfly...’ Later on as she mezad Strepsils, I explained to her that The White Masai was not a Masai but a Samburu. Samburu is the cousin of Masai but it is Masai you need to fuck to get a movie deal.

Now the other day I heard that she was writing a book about me; trouble is, my name has been changed to Ole Kende Mbili. Eish, baba... ebu try saying that when you are coming... tut tut!

But things change and mad dicks rearrange... In came the Jewish girl from Upstate New York. She had no number tattooed on her arm like I had thought all Jews do and she had never been to a Kibbutz.

I took her down to my ‘hood. Shit flew out of windows towards the communal toilet. Communal towels; Communal garbage; Communal intercourse. The only thing that you couldn’t share was a condom because there was none.

Scrawny children and mangy dogs crisscrossed the alleys in their uniform of mud streaked deprivation you couldn’t tell them apart. Was this the look of despondency? Wasn’t this not the kind of hapless fear and resignation that her granny saw before her Escape from Sobibor? Auschwitz-Birkenau. Bergen Belsen. Jasenovac. European ghettos. Maybe she wasn’t Alex Haley but she could feel an immutable bond with this place.

At the corner we exchanged something meaningful, something worth more, to her, than the business cards she exchanged on Madison Avenue- body fluids. But even as she leaned against the mud and wattle wall, moaning, the chants of the slum children reached for her neck and scathingly marked her as an outsider. As I grabbed her taut buttocks and sent Negroid chaff coursing through her wheat fields in a microcosm of desegregation, their chants wrenched out her soul and with the branding rod of prejudice tattooed: Mzungu! Mzungu!

Tuendelee ama tusiendelee....?

A Swedish girl from... wherever Swedish girls come from taught me how to smoke and not choke. I brought her a stone and a boti of something that wasn’t Absolut Vodka then told her the theory that I learnt from my Mutiri. Many years ago, as he rubbed my bloodied dick, my mutiri told me that Europeans spend one hour on foreplay and one minute on intercourse; but miros... eish, one minute foreplay and one hour of coitus non interuptus.

So I took her to my Weapon Testing Facility. She couldn’t even last through the Boot Camp. But the main reason I remember her is because in the morning instead of a hickie, she had a thick red line of bed bug bites...

***

But all that was a long time ago. I got tired of running away from the Home Office goons while working sixteen hour double shifts. And the flesh was getting tepid while the weather went on drizzly cold as though Global Warming was just another Donor Funded phrase. I wanted to return home. Yeah, the government at home sucked and the girls didn’t but what the hell; it would still be nice to Come in Bantu: ‘... sssssss... ai... ai... ngai! ngai! ngai!’

In Nairobi I have learnt that Jungle Fever is a poor man’s disease like HIV/ AIDS, cholera and dysentery. Yeah, with my dreads and battle hardened Levi’s 501s, Jungle Fever would make me look like a Nairobi Beach Boy. You know the type, don’t you? They hang around __ on Kenyatta Avenue; sometimes they catch a jave to Carnie on Wednesday night.

Boy I am a hustler lakini.... eish, dadi, I am not horizontally inclined. I prefer to make my money on my two feet. Yes, I do; but those fellows make a living by coming in German, invariably, and a motley bunch of other fringe Non- UN, European languages.

So we got Dakimu an antidote; a nice African pussy...

... and he was laid happily ever after!!!