Na ujue hii ploti ni category ya extreme sports. Nimeingiza tu kichwa and, "My oh my!" My grandmother wouldn't be proud at all. If only she knew. She'd be first to assemble, organize, and facilitate combing the village to make available a wife so I can settle down. She'd be on my parent's neck, hustling them why a man, as old as I am, has been left to his own devices in the city.
This ka-small living room is pulsing and buzzing with life, a chaotic symphony of laughter, argument, banter and the thumping base of Breeder LW's Dedili dedilee spilling out of the Sony home system. That bro can give you a party and a half. Also, what's this obsession of Kenyan male artists with Daystar babes?
I'm sprawled on this, not so gentle on the bum sofa, itching to move but still working on the choma kachumbari foundation on my lap before I partake. And then maybe, just maybe, the party animal in me can look alive.
The air is thick with a kaleidoscope of colored lights—reds, blues, and purples swirling across the walls, splashing over faces, and catching in the haze hanging lazily overhead. Nine of us, all in our twenties, have invaded this space—guys, ghels, a messy tangle of youth and reckless energy.
In the far corner, where the shadows stretch a little deeper, a couple is locked in their own world. Their lips meet in slow, deliberate kisses, oblivious to the chaos around them, the flickering lights are painting their silhouettes like some fleeting piece of art.
The coffee table in front of me is a battlefield of bottles. Beer sweating in glasses, a half-empty whiskey bottle tipped precariously on its side, and a gin bottle glinting under the lights, surrounded by a graveyard of used tumblers and a few still waiting to be claimed.
Across the room, a plume of smoke curls upward as three—no, four friends pass a joint between them. The sweet, earthy scent of weed mingled with the sting of liquor in the air, a heady mix that makes everything feel a little softer, a little slower. My evening was not meant to be spent this way.
"Nitengenezee half kg. Weka hii ina mafuta mafuta." I tell him, pointing at some tantalizing choma. Unlike you, I do love something with fat. It slaps different.
"Take away ama?" He asks.
"Take away."
This bro looks like a walking skeleton, does he even eat? You'd think working in any food joint would slap some meat on those bones, but nope, he's defying the odds. Have you ever seen a skinny chef? Exactly, bro's out here cooking feasts and starving himself. Someone get him some of those fats he's whipping up, quick!
"Tukuwekee ugali na kachumbari pia?" He shoots.
"Zii, kachumbari pekee iko sawa." I reply.
"Unezaketi hapo ukingojea." He points me to a plastic seat facing the road.
This is my regular evening spot for treats - the sights, sounds, and smells kind. I get to soak in the human buzz and bustle, playing judge and jury like a god.
"Bro, si unitengenezee samosa pia?" My intestines are rumbling, I haven't swallowed anything since noon.
"Ngapi?" He asks.
"Mmh, niwekee mbili."
He snags two samosas and tosses them onto the sizzling grill on the right, where his colleague is searing my beef, the aroma mingling with smoky heat. He pivots sharply to the smaller grill on my left, flipping some mutura. People swarm in waves, grabbing bites in batches of 20 bob, a chaotic dance of hunger and haste.
Thing about this thing is that you keep piling on until your three sock vanishes. You walk away buzzing with dopamine, transport cash for tomorrow scraped thin. It’s that evening rush—matatus, motorbikes, trucks, and cars blaring honks, their red and white lights streaking the road like a restless pulse.
Minutes later, my samosas are crisp, and my throat’s primed to savor them.
"Yote inakuja how much?" I ask, voice cutting through the fracas.
"Pamoja na samosa ni 560," he shoots back, unfazed.
I dig in, munching as an Audi SUV glides by, trailed by a Mazda Axela, then an E-Class Merc. Landcruiser Prados blur past—I’ve lost track. This spot fuels dreams; I could sit an hour, eyeing sleek cars from this perch. But not tonight—ugali’s calling, and a project looms into the dark hours. I pay and leave. Town haitaki uzembe!
Darkness is creeping over the cabro road - a patchwork of not so neatly laid stone bricks winding toward my apartment. Honestly I'm still not sure whether to categorize my new home kama ploti ama apartment.
Street lights come alive, casting pools of pale glow along the path. As I walk, three young women emerge from the shadows ahead. They are an electric trio, each with a distinct vibe. They seem to be peering around, a little uncertain, like they've missed a turn in the dimming light.
The first catches my eye with a bold tattoo snaking up her forearm—maybe a floral design or something edgier, ink dark against her skin, peeking out from under a rolled-up sleeve. She’s got a confident stance, hands on her hips, but her furrowed brow betrays her confusion.
The second stands out even more ~ a glint of metal flashes from her nose piercing. She turns her head and I spot another in her tongue, catching the fading light as she talks. Her voice is sharp, animated, cutting through the quiet evening.
The third is quieter, less adorned, clutching a phone and squinting at the screen—probably the one tasked with navigation, though it’s clearly not going well.
I slow my pace as I approach, their conversation pausing as they glance my way. I can never let a baddie pass, let alone three.
“Hey, are you guys okay, mnakaa mmepotea?” I ask, casual but curious. They exchange quick looks, and the tattooed one nods.
“Eeeh, tunatafuta Bellaview Apartments, Block C? Tumekuja bash ya beshte yetu but hashiki simu.”
"Ama you guys just invited yourselves." I think to myself. Hii Nairobi economic refugees everywhere. I grin because, the building is right ahead and that's also where I live.
“Alaa! Naishi hapo pia. Twendeni niwapeleke.” Their faces light up—relief mixed with excitement and they fall into step beside me. The pierced one chatters about how they almost gave up, while the tattooed one teases her for not knowing how to use Google Maps. The third just smiles, tucking her phone away, grateful to be off map duty.
As we approach the apartment block, the muffled thump of music spills out from an open window—third floor, alive with the buzz of a house party already in swing. I push the gate open, gesturing them in.
I deliver them to the exact door number.
"Aki ahsante, si utujoin?" the pierced one chirps, tilting her head as I turn to go.
"No, thanks. Niko na shughuli kejani, maybe next time."
People think I’m wild, but I’ve got discipline, believe it or not.
"Usipoingia utakuwa umebant," she teases, a giggle bubbling out.
Tattoos and piercings scream a thousand Chinese flags, but they’re freaking green flags for fun. And damn, these girls are radiant under the corridor’s soft glow. Well, except the third one, I can't unsee how Ngulusumu she is. I understand why she was on map duty.
Fuck discipline. Fuck shughuli kejani. Fuck red flags. Fuck focussing on myself. Fuck adulting. At this point the other side seems greener, so I'mma get me a picnic mat and basket. Find happiness because problems have a way of finding you. A friend usually says, "Usisahau kuskia poa." Such a wholesome motto.
The bassline of "Skamaress" thumps through the room, a filthy, pulsing rhythm that’s got the air vibrating and my blood pumping. “Skamaress, skamaress… Na mamanzi wa Nairobi, wanapenda kujiringa…”
Madtraxx, you beautiful bastard, you changed my life—dropped this track and turned every night into a fever dream of hips and heat. The speakers hum, the beat driving the chaos of bodies and smoke, and I’m right in the thick of it, drowning in the vibe.
My right hand grips the shisha hose, as a lazy curl of sweet, fragrant smoke escapes my lips. My left hand, though, is far busier—sliding slow and deliberate along the curve of her waist, fingertips sinking into the soft, warm flesh of this tattooed goddess swaying before me.
Anybody asking you to marry is ops. Secret agents, the KGB itself, nothing less. They've been sent by the devil himself to deny you happiness.
This babe's skin’s a canvas of ink and temptation, each swirl and line glistening under the dim light. Those hips—fuck, they roll like liquid sin, a hypnotic grind that could unravel a man’s soul. Hapa usipokaa vizuri, that heat between her thighs will drench you, leave you trembling, and have your ancestors clutching their pearls in shame.
The pierced one’s watching from across the room, her eyes sharp with a mix of envy and hunger. She’s been locked on me for a solid minute now, those dark, smoldering gazes piercing through the smoke.
Her tongue flicks against the stud in her lip, a glint of metal catching the light. Jealousy’s a hell of a drug, and she’s high af on it, practically begging me to peel my attention from the writhing hips and give her a taste instead.
My phone buzzes hard against my thigh. “Shit, acha nishike hii simu,” I mutter, reluctantly pulling my hand from the tattooed babe’s waist. Her pout’s instant, but I’m already weaving through the room, the shisha smoke trailing me like a tease.
I slip into the next room. The call’s some client project thing. I’m half-listening, pacing, when I catch movement in the doorway.
It’s her—the pierced one. She slinks in, all predator and promise, that studded tongue darting out to wet her lips as she locks the door behind her.
“Thought umetoroka,” she purrs, voice low and rough, closing the distance between us. Her fingers trail down my chest, nails scraping just enough to spark heat, and before I can hang up, she’s on her knees, tugging at my belt with a wicked grin.
“Hata usikate hiyo simu,” she whispers, eyes glinting up at me, “I’ll make it quick.”
The phone’s still pressed to my ear, bro's droning on about deadlines, but my breath catches as she frees me, her pierced tongue flicking out—cold metal meets hot skin, and I’m fucking gone.
She takes me in, slow at first, that stud dragging along every sensitive inch, sending jolts straight up my spine. Her mouth’s a furnace, wet and tight, and she’s working me with a rhythm that’s all confidence—sucking hard, then teasing with that piercing, the contrast shredding my control.
I choke out a “yeah, uh-huh” into the phone, barely coherent, as she hollows her cheeks and takes me deeper, eyes locked on mine, daring me to break. The call ends—I don’t even know when—and I’m gripping her hair, groaning as she finishes me off, that pierced tongue claiming every last shudder.
That pierced tongue!!!
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Through the dark cemetery, whispers called my name; only I could see her shadow smile.
Ever carried cash and instantly felt like the universe was plotting? I tried walking around with a single 1,000-bob note, only to lose it, panic, cry-laugh, and end up chasing down a mint-chewing bus conductor across Nairobi. Truly… cash and I are not friends.
