YOUNG URBAN POLYSEXUAL*

I am standing by Mama Hannah’s simu ya jamii wondering who to flash. Sitting at One Love Licker (sic) Store, earlier, I crossed off one number from my dirt smeared notebook for every mug of senator I guzzled. Ten mugs; ten connections with my past severed. Now I am standing here braving one convulsive fit of bleary-eyed hiccough after another. My chest is tight, not from smoking all those halflifes of Supermatch and Safari that my grubby paws have twiddled with, but tight with emotion.

I am scared, scared of being alone.

There is no one to flash; no one to talk to except… except N-. N-! But N- is in France! Damn, how do you say Flash Back 130 in Français?

Fuzzy memories of yesterday. My afternoon bar hopping found me in Hurlingham. So I passed by this Muhindi sweatshop where I used to stack boxes of contraband computer parts in January. The Muhindi is off to Canada to blow his latest couple of millions. But the monkeys, the monkeys are still there slaving away- a testament to the Potashian Theory of Economic Stagnation: It takes a million monkeys a million years of stacking boxes to make themselves a million shillings. So for now they settle for 5,499/- a month (or nothing, in case one breaks a 200/= mouse!)

I bought us all a 750 ml of Kenya King and we drank to… well, must we drink to something? Si ni fombe tu! Okay, let’s say we drank to ambition or the lack thereof…

But was I really in Hurlingham to see these folks? I do not know really, but picture this: Yesterday morning as I sat at Dimosh’s Kinyozi halflifing; tipping used cans to catch stray drops from the previous night’s Napshizzle and sharing masturbatory experiences, I received a message from an ex-girlfriend on Dimosh’s cellie. Now this is someone who looked me in the eye many years ago and asked: Potash, what can you do for me?

Now they are all jumping out off the woodwork trying to catch a Piece of the P. They have heard rumours- unconfirmed of course- that the Young Urban Poser is soon to hit the big one. So they all want to come in,the vultures, come in early because they know that Potash is a supernova- when his star shines it’s only for a second. Potash has an infinite capacity to self destruct. That should explain to you how I came to be branded a Casanova, it is because when they want me, they all want me. And there I am in the limelight with all these public relationships, then I slip; tumble; fall and the Potash appeal is gone long before the Trust condom has reached the Dandora Dumpsite.

Well, the ex-girlfriend- she lives in Hurlingham- texted to say: “Hey P. am Digs. solo. Cam wi catch (up)… hint! Hint!.Miss U. XX”

Dayum. I rushed off to Uchumi and shoplifted two ‘halves’ of Kenya Cane. Yeah, that there is the drink for special moments. I poured some on the kinyozi’s floor as libation to the god of horny polysexual men. Then I passed the bottles around as I regaled the boys- in graphic detail- with made up tales of my last night with this ex. Man, we drank to that; then wanked to that… Geez, the shop floor was soon more slippery than a post-combi pussy.

Someone lit a joint.
Guttural ejaculations all around.

With the luck of one in a billion spermatozoa, I managed to escape that barbershop cannabis free and lunge my puny frame into the warm, dark, welcoming depths of M- Pub. Yeah, I was in the mood for frotho. Man, with 4,652/- Kenya money and six sticks of Supermatch, I was living it, no?

“Okay, Tony, leta Pitcher, na wale mababi… hawana dough… wapatie kimoja!”

I nyonyad that pint-o like a warm matiti.

Then I hit tao.

Ati tao ya down? Shidwe. Ish si I had lavash, so it’s huko west of Kenyatta Avenue and south of Kimathi Street. The place was kinda slow juu watu wa ma-suti were going through that time of the month. Alafu Arsenal and Manchester weren’t playing but I couldn’t find out why.

I had two Malts… slowly. Then I borrowed a light from this guy at the bar despite the fact that I had one of my own. He had a really cool lighter. Quite sexy. Wished I could have it. I returned it though and bought him a beer. I bought him a beer just because I thought he was kinda cute. Then… ish, I got out of there, Kwani?

I staggered to Serena. Nikapata boy wangu hapo; msee wa base lakini sijui anaitwa.

“Ah, Potash leo niachie kinde…!” he semad.
“Ah, kinde tu… si udai kaa soo hivi!” Nikamshow.
“Mmmm, ati soo; Potash utoe soo wapi?”

I gave the motherfucker a 2 soc and jumped into a mat. I am sure the dude fainted, well at least baadayes at Kijiji- changaa ya soo mbili, kizee!

Haya, Hurlingham, kushuka na jam… sawa, I shukad. I lengad paying; matatu ya Kawangware nilipe nikufe! The mama's digs is on that Karoad for cop station- Jabavu or something- which is tricky because Kilimani PD has had an APB out on Potash, The, for about a decade. It is flattering, really, you know like Billy the Kid, I always say that: Dead or alive, it is nice to be wanted. And it is a line I throw at stuck up females who do not want me ati coz I am too ghetto, sijui a lowlife. “Girl you might not want me but four Five-O divisions in this city do!”

Anyway, niko Hurlingham. This mama’s digs is on Jabavu alafu I kumbuka I haven’t been to see the boys I used to work with in a while. The Muhindi sweatshop is huko Chaka Road. Eureka! Look here, this is the plan, see... I will tembea up Arghwings Kodhek, ingia Chaka. Hola at those boys. Nitupe kimoja alafu I walk down jabavu. That way I will not pass by the Five-Os.

***

Ehe, walaps. Bado mnavumilia, eh? Musyoka panda bike haraka… Yaya… 750. Manze. Wah, these punks have downloaded new porn. Oh la la! Musyoka panda bike… ai ai ai aaaai!
Wekelea.

Aki that dude looks like Timi… sindio? Yule boy wangu wa mtaa!
Eh, by the way…!
But Timi is bigger… huh!
Bigger, yeah.. wah… cheki hiyo…!
Ako poa
Poaaaaaaaaa!

***

I came to this morning at Jamo’s house as sticky between the legs as an SJ whore. To shower or not to shower, that was the question. I skived shawi but I had to have loads of alcohol to wash away the taste of semen and after shave from my mouth.


*For a working defination of Polysexualism, refer:
Pathologies of Dysfunction and Savagery- The sexual Lives of Low Class Nairobi Youth; Fraud, Sigmund, (1903)