WEST SIDE (SEX) STORY

(Holed away from both the marauding militia and the Presidential Guard and his arm too heavily bandaged but his head still where he left it in a drunken stupor last night- in the gutter but still connected to his torso, Thai... ahem, Hallelujah- this blogger has inchoate reminisces on a life a long way gone.)

When some were chasing dreams, we were chasing dragons. They had just bust Akasha and with 960 million bob worth of hash to get through, that shit became cheaper than Saf Cane. But who cared to buy Saf Cane anyway while you could just shop lift it from Sarit Hyper.

The food court was always crowded, but only one kid would be buying. And then there were the girls. Madame wasafi; madame wa kibabi. Girls who were game for where the weed was at, where the booze was at and most importantly, where the dick was at. And they didn’t mind paying for it all.

When M-‘s folks went off to England, The States or wherever else they holidayed, he had the cribs to himself. So the deal was, if you were down for some action all you had to bring were the condoms and have yourself a zung chick, a pointie chick and a miro chick, one after the other or all at once. It was your dick, damn it, you made the choice of where and when to shove it. If the condom broke, well, you moved on to the next shag as the receptacle of your seed was left with the small bother of finding time after school to go for Plan B (A soc over the counter at a chemist near you- proof of age not required.)

Sometimes, if you were so inclined, you could have a Tupac loving chuta chick let you put it in her arse. (Such is the agony of a dick lover who is expected to bleed on her wedding night!)

Life was one big orgasm, or at least it seemed to be in our hallucinations. And we called it Westland’s summer of 1999.

I remember the nights, clearly as though they were days. I remember sitting at the stalls at the corner of Rhapta and Chiromo at dusk. That side of the highway was under one PD and the other side was served by another, but who cared about cops in Westlands when your boy’s surname was a get out jail free card? Those were the Moi days remember.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to some of those kids. The rich ones I mean. Of course they all went to England and as it was seemingly becoming vogue: Australia and Malaysia. But then what? It has been many years. I would love to see them wearing suits and ties and building the nation; or at least making a worthwhile pretence of it.