Some girl somewhere is on her knees praying for a tall, handsome, sanctified, demon-chasing kind of a man who has not only been washed by the blood of Jesus but also speaks in King Jameth English. I am that man.
I can hear her crying to God telling Him of how akina Brayo, Jaymo and Jontez have hurt her and enough is enough. She is telling God that she needs someone with a broad chest and who posts hilarious memes on his WhatsApp status. I am that man.
I want to connect to her in the spirit but the cockroaches doing bad manners in my microwave would not let me concentrate. This is usually the longest moment of my life; warming food. Waiting patiently for three minutes and 30 seconds as the food warms is something I would not wish on my worst enemy.
I am usually distracted by my phone as I wait for a thousand light-years for my food to warm. I am not lucky today because my phone is charging. I am here fantasizing about this girl and coincidentally two lover cockroaches are marinating their love enjoying the scent of my food as they go round my microwave.
I am fascinated by these two little creatures that shamelessly make love as I watch. I bend forward like ‘The Thinker’ sculpture by Auguste Rodin hands on my chin as if to whisper to the brown scumbags, “Please get a room.” Back to my girl.
I feel like asking God to help me teleport to this girl’s prayers. I want to appear like half-chested Pascal Tokodi leaning on the edge of her bedroom door rubbing my palms like a housefly rubbing its lips after taking some sumptuous poop.
Of course, she would be shocked to see me but you know Pascal, you do not know me, I am 1,000 Pascals raised to power 500 Tokodis. I will make the conversation swift.
“Do not be afraid Proverbs 31 woman. It is I who you have been praying for.”
She will be bewildered at first so I will make the conversation cozy.
“I am Siloma, but you can call me Mauzes because verily verily I say unto thou, I will part the Red Sea of tears that Brayo soaked into thou eyes.”
Who wouldn’t be taken aback by such a line? She will wonder how a glistening masculine mali safi gladiator like me would be in her presence. And that’s when I will kill her with them lines. You know unlike Brayo, I do not get short of lines. Now you know why cockroaches have the audacity to hump near my food – they steal my lines.
This girl is staunch and so I will get straight to the beautiful pick up lines in Song of Songs.
“Your lips are like a crimson thread, and your mouth is lovely. Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate and your breasts are like twin fawns of a gazelle, feeding among the lilies. You know what girl, Me + You = Song of Songs: the remix.”
She will collapse in my arms, the so-called Siloma’s bosom and we get married and chase the demons in her life (akina Brayos, Subaru Boys, Gengetone chaps, and the Amapiano gang). My people will be her people and we live forever after.
You know what? I am tired. I am tired of these girls with long nails sijui they call tips and gels. I am tired because they are the encyclopedia of everything (Kamusi ya Karne ya 21 I tell you). It is always about their nails. Damn, they talk a lot occasionally pulling the ‘Ouch, my nails’ phrase.
They always have opinions about everything; they see your beautiful, well manicured brown cockroaches undisturbed in their sauna and they go like, ‘Eeew! What are these in your house?’ You will think they are transcendent beings who have never imagined such creatures in their realm.
They have that ka-lingo the one they share with the ‘you guy my guys’. They always mix English and Englishified Swahili.
‘You have mende in your house’. How they pronounce the mende you would think they were born in Mashashushets.
‘We endad, we kujad, I liad.’ I tried to copy their lingo and I almost swallowed my tongue.
These are the same girlfriends who buy you boxers and socks and tell the whole world including their deep state (the besties and swiries) that if it were not for them, you would not be surviving coz they clothed you, fed you, gave you oxygen and you still have the audacity to flirt with other gels.
The good thing with my Proverbs 31 woman is that she knows the man is the priest of the house. The priest of the house just lays his feet on the poof as he reads the paper. She also doesn’t expect much, she just expects his Mauzes to come home with a kilo of meat and the Daily Nation. Of course, our ‘tips’ girls expect you to come with everything including nothing.
I tell you this Nairobi has shown me things wacha tu. But you know what? I am still surviving in this cold on the rocks with my two-pack duvet as the chaser.
I want an Almighry Gad kind of a woman. Not just any other Christian girl but one who calls Him Almighry Gad. She should not have a fancy name but a native name from the Bible; something like Deborah, Elizabeth, or Esther.
She shouldn’t call herself, Debby, Lizzie or Essy. She should embrace her Biblical identity and should also speak not new but the Old King Jameth English so that in the house we would have conversations like:
“Come up hither my love, awaken from your chloroformic slumber and see to it that our kids Jehoshaphat and Athaliah are groomed and prepared ready for school.”
But the ear-splitting beeping sound from my old oxidized microwave wouldn’t let me think more about her. A full three minutes and 30 seconds include 5 seconds for the crazy beep has lapsed. It is time to eat. Even my cockroaches have taken a rest.