WEDNESDAY, 1800EAT: I have just left Karumaindo North (OK, Simmers), where I had gone for a healthy dose of optical nutrition. I am waiting for the dim-eyed orangutan Omosh, the parking boy, er, er, ‘manager’, to bring me my 2800cc German machine – I can’t stand Australian Openings, Toyotas or blue Subarus – when this young lady of about 55 years approaches me. Long story short, she tells me she is stranded. No bus fare. I dip my hands into my Gucci wallet and extract a brand new Sh200 note and give it to her. She is grateful, and if on second thoughts, she asks me for my contacts. Like the fool I am, I give her one of my gold-plated business cards printed in Italy. Just then, Omosh brings the machine, and as I sink into its baby-butt soft leather, I am grateful that I have done a good deed that day. Mbirrionaires have hearts, you know.
THURSDAY, 1545EAT: I am relaxing at Galleria, slowly appreciating the cheese on my chicken pizza, when a strange call comes in. I had just been negotiating with Albert Keen, the son of John Keen, about the possibility of some venture capital fund I own buying their 50-acre spread in Karen to put up an international school, the FieldMarshal School for Extraordinary Children of African Gentlemen. It’s the bus fare lady. She just wants to know how I am, and WHERE I am. Strange, but I don’t think anything of it. The cheese is salty and tangy, just the way I like it. Ferk the pacemaker! I’ll die another day.
FRIDAY, 1802EAT: I am enjoying the bitter-sweet taste of a cold White CUP at Jockeys, The Hilton, when the bus fare lady calls. She wants to meet me. Mentally, I shrug, and then tell her where I am. Within 20 minutes she is there. She takes two sodas (Sh500). I listen half-heartedly, thinking about @Kingolonde’s singo matha sister, who I am supposed to bang this weekend. In between eating the singo matha’s pussy in my mind, I hear the bus fare lady tell me about her divorce, her disabled grand–daughter, her dead daughter and junkie son, her tribulations, everything. Like the good mbirrionaire I am, I listen, or rather, pretend to listen. Despite my boredom, I counsel her. I tell her God (ahem!) only gives us those challenges we can handle. I tell her how to get her daughter registered with the Council for PWDs so she could get the Sh3,000 or so welfare cheque that the gavament of HE the Anointed Muthamaki gives the severely disabled each month. Then I start giving hints she needs to leave. I dip my hand into my Gucci wallet and give her Sh500 bus fare. She doesn’t leave. I give more hints that we are through. She refuses to take them. I start taking my White CUPS furiously, at Sh520 a bottle – The Hilton niggas are robbers, but the ambience is good, so what the ferk? An hour later, the bus fare lady, no, woman, must have thought I was sufficiently drunk. She asked me for money to go buy her disabled daughter ‘supper’. And that’s when all my irritation boiled over. I completely lost it. This is a woman who I did not know, yet just 48 hours earlier had given Sh200. I had bought her sodas worth Sh500 at no less an establishment as the Hilton. Just an hour previously, I had given her Sh500 in cash for her fare. I had taken my time to counsel and advise her about her disabled daughter. I had told her about a White God I did not even believe in. AND, WHEN SHE THOUGHT I WAS DRUNK, SHE WAS ASKING ME FOR MORE MONEY? Ferk, who did she think she was? Why in the name of Jesus’ balls did she want to take advantage of me like that? To cut a long story short, I was so pissed and so loud –“Malaya mzee wewe, stupid old conwoman, silly bitch with kuma mzee etc etc” that the floor manager had to come and calm me down. The bus fare lady was escorted out by security, and I continued enjoying my chilled White CUPS until 2AM, when I hailed a Kenatco cab to bring me to my residence.
SATURDAY, 1350EAT: As I watch little dim-eyed orangutans – long-toothed dark-as-night jaruos must stop breeding - raid my lokward trees, I am wondering, did I over-react yesterday? True, the money wasn’t much - Sh1,200 - but I always hate being taken advantage of. I really do. Why should somebody you are helping – even with Sh10 – think you are a gullible little shit with no brains? Si hiyo ni kukosa heshima jameni?
Your thoughts please.