The Lunch Date

“Do you know Rusty Nail?” Monique asked after I picked up her cell-phone call at its second ring.

“Rusty Nail?” I echoed. Then it occurred to me after she had replied with a “Yeah…”

“Looky here babes,” I told her. “Just because we haven’t been intimate for a while doesn’t mean you have to change the nickname for my your-favourite-body-part.”

She laughed.

“Our Kid,” she said. I didn’t see anything funny about the predicament she had forcibly placed me just a few weeks before the wedding. “Firstly, your my-favourite-body-part is your lips. And secondly, Rusty Nail is a restaurant,” she informed me.

“Hmmm?” I asked.

“Yeah. It is near The Great Corner.”

Now she had lost me. I am a quite directionless person and I always seem to get lost once I make a turning and I therefore never bother with pointing to people where I have come from.

Even in my own digs, I am unable to point out where the City Centre is and once in a while meanie people have laughed at me when I point to the opposite directions. So there was no way I could even remember where this corner was as the mere mention of the word ‘corner’ makes me tremble.

“Where the devil is that?”

“Kiddo, you really have lost your sense of humour,” Monique said. “Oh well…” and then the cellphone connection went off.

I called her back.

“Sowie,” she said at the first ring. “I ran out of units.”

Hmmm. And my unit has been running out of patience since she slapped this ban on me so that we could focus on the wedding.

“What was I saying?” she asked.

On Monique. She could remember the street, the exact date or month and the colour of mini-skirt or dress of the last girl whose swinging hips made me turn my head as we walked past but she couldn’t remember what she was just telling me only a few minutes ago.

“You were talking about some corner,” I said hoping this was all it took to click the refresh button.

‘Oh.. yeah… The Great Corner… come on… didn’t you know that Dagoretti Corner is a corruption of that?”

Wololo. Was she kidding me? Dagoretti?

“So anyways... I would like to buy you lunch at Rusty Nail.”

I have been around women for so long in my life that I know when she says she wants to buy you lunch it is either she wants you to buy her lunch or she wants you to buy her lunch.

“That’s alright. I am insatiable and could do with some food.” I admitted.

And that is how we ended up at the place where the sign at the entrance could very well have been the same sign on Monique’s panyos. Admittance was restricted.

I had barely sat down when she smiled and said, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Now, now. I thought this was about lunch. My appetite was all soaring and I made gestures for the menu to be brought to the table. I looked up at her and she was having this sly look in her face. Something was up.

“Is there something you want me to tell you?” I asked her as we looked at the menu. I will probably never ever figure out women and their ways. She asks me if there is something I want to tell her when I didn’t have anything to tell her since she had been the one who initiated this whole lunch date in the first place.

“Eish Our Kid,” she prodded. “There must be something you want to tell me.”

“Nope!” I said. “Is there a point to all this?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” she stated. “Shower!”

I laughed uneasily.

“Oooh”, I said. “The Bridal Shower. You know, I always thought that was some girl event. I have no problems if you guys want to invite a stripper or one of those sexologists to make your evening. I thought I already told you I am not the most old fashioned person you ever met. It would be a great…”

“I heard you had quite the shower the other day!”

Wow. Cilla actually told her! Cilla actually told her! Cilla told her about the shower? Now this was getting interesting (probably for you) and uninteresting (definitely for me). I will probably never ever figure out women and their ways. Snakes with tits.

“I… had quite the shower the other day?” I repeated after her.

I had discovered that this asking-a-question-back always worked for me when Monique asked me any question or said anything I wasn’t sure how to respond to. There was no YES or NO for me since this was not the referendum.

“Yeah. I know about it. I am so proud of you,” she said and lovingly put her hand against my chin as if she wanted to give me some shaving tips. My mind was racing.

“You are?” I asked.

“Very.”

Turns out that Cilla told her that in a moment of feminine vengeance against her ex-boyfriend, she had offered herself to me during this sex ban and I had demurred. Turns out that Cilla had found a foursome sex tape of her boyfriend in his apartment and upon watching it had decided she was through and through with him.

“A foursome?”

Awesome. Boy, oh, boy are not some men lucky? I have met Cilla’s boyfriend (or now ex) several times and he was always wearing some T-Shirts with funny inscriptions such as ‘I AM 2 GIRLS SHORT OF A 3SOME’ but I never thought the guy actually would actualize some of those thoughts.

I was still picturing the tape in my mind to even notice that Monique was continuing with her talk. And like all women, Monique can talk as if she needs to hit a certain word limit per day!

“So I guess I am also to blame for always concentrating on this our relationship to the exclusion of the desperation that my friends like Cish are going through. You know when she opened her heart to me, I really felt bad about how the two relationships with our respective boyfriends have been so different!”

Music to my ears. To tell you the truth, Monique was too much at times and had even gotten un-friended by several of her friends as she kept going on and on about our relationship and even had the countdown to the wedding.

'18 days until I marry the love of my life!... 17 days until I marry my best friiiiiiiiiiend!...' and so on...

Some of my friends had in jest inboxed me these updates twisted to reflect my soon to be Prison Break status. She counted each and every day!

“… And when the other day she asked me where I had bought that outfit the magazine had cited as ‘Model’s Own’ and I told her you got it for me, she had sadly remarked how she never got anything from her boyfriend.”

On the basis of that tape, she could easily get something from her boyfriend, I thought. And on and on and on Monique went. In my mind I was thinking of how one day I should be walking around with a placard that opened up to read ‘THE END’ when her stories got lengthy.

“… I know I called for a lot of sacrifice when I said that I wanted us to take a break from intimacy until the wedding and I promise you I am going to give you so much it will be worth it”

Hmmm. Mushy stuff.

I was confused. I didn’t know whether to say the pseudo-Shakespearean tosh or to play the I-am-still-upset-you-said-no-intimacy-until-the-wedding role.

I had already taken some advice from my close associates on how to handle this pre-wedding bilas.

Romeo, whom I had settled on as the Best Man had advised that he had never read in the obituaries about someone whose cause of death was lack of sex.

Furansisi had confessed that he once had a back problem and the doctor prescribed that he had no intimacy for a month… though he tried to coax his wife into sex with the line ‘The Doctor isn’t here to see me!”

Don on the other had said he pitied Monique. “You could positively drown her in your sperm when the ban is lifted!”

'15 days. 15 days and then it is done!...' my FB status would have read if I was the status updating type.

We were through with lunch and Monique either settled the bill or didn't.

Near Sex Experience

Well, it turns out that phrases mean different things to different people. Especially Monique.

It is quite an outrage and part of the reason I haven’t recently been having any blogging rights at all.

First you may need to understand the statistics! Statistics are a terrible thing. And none were worse than those that were recently released that indicated that more unmarried Kenyans have sex than married ones.

As Alanis Morisette probably asked when confronted with those statistics, ‘Isn’t it ironic?’. Truly, how can people who are legally licensed to have sex be the ones who are not doing it more frequently. It would be ironic too to my grandma Rosa.

Whenever I have spoken to my grandma and she wanted to find out where a certain female relative was married, she would use the phrase in the local dialect in my community that comes out as ‘In whose home is she getting shagged?’.

In one other incident that illustrates the license to have sex, I had my attachment during my university days at the local Law Courts when one day a couple that had been caught having sex in a car were arraigned before the court. They were married. But not to each other.

The charge sheet inexplicably and perhaps memorably read: Being idle and without lawful excuse engaging in sex in a motor vehicle.

I chuckled. Being idle? If there is anything you want to accuse people who are engaged in nookie, it surely would not be being idle! And when I challenged the police prosecutor whom I shared my lunch with during the entire attachment what the lawful excuse for having sex was, he simply said, ‘Marriage!’

So I was a bit surprised as a person who was getting married to learn that most married men don’t get jiggy with their wives. It is so mind boggling and perhaps grim. And this was confirmed recently when one of my lady clients who was seeking a decree of divorce from her husband sneered: “The only chance that I could have sex with my husband is if I divorced him”.

The statistics by National Aids Control Committee also revealed that Kenyan youngsters are sexually active at very alarming levels. In fact, it was indicated that the month of December is the month that most youth lose their virginity.

The shocking report jolted a few persons who decided that the only way for this country to be saved would be if we upheld our old traditions. Like outlawing pre-marital sex. And as it sadly turned out, a few persons included Monique.

Now, a few months ago, if you asked me what pre-marital sex was, I would have gladly joined in and stated how it was the kick the entire populace needed.

For Monique, since the whole ‘we are now engaged’ scene played itself out in our lives, she decided that we had to take it traditional. She put her foot down. Yes.

Strictly no more nookie before the wedding. I protested. Pre-marital did not mean ‘just before the wedding’ but she appeared to have made up her mind to keep her fine feet, straight legs, quivering thighs and the demesnes that lay adjacent closed until the business of the marriage ceremony was concluded.

So the last few months I have been quite my grumpy self suffering from nookie withdrawal symptoms and it got so bad that I couldn’t blog as I just can’t blog when am not having sex.

[Now I can blog, because, I finally, er… you know….]

It has been a terribly trying time. Key word, trying. And there were other actors to keep it that way during my period of withdrawal.

I found myself spending more time in the showers contemplating self love. And so Cilla one day burst into the bathroom as I was taking my shower. I was busy singing a fairly familiar Lucky Dube tune with the made up lyrics, “You know where to find me, when you wanna see me!”



The water was gushing and I briefly turned it off to see why it was flowing in torrents and not spurting out evenly. Turned out someone had turned and slightly twisted the shower head. Monique didn’t use this shower, preferring to use the bath tub and the only person who used it other meself was Cilla.

Whilst I silently cussed her shapely behind and wondered why people with the body of a Goddess would sometimes have the brain of a footballer, I turned the water back on and went on with my Lucky rendition.

“You know where to find me, when you wanna talk to me! You know…”

The doorknob to the shower had turned and the door was slammed.

“Sorry, but I really have to go,” Cilla said like she was a contestant on those Japanese game shows where girls compete to find out who can hold their bladder the longest.


“You WHAT?” I shockingly asked as I looked all over for my towel which was not in the vicinity but was placed on the sink. Only the shower curtain separated us as she sat on the throne with the sound of her pee hitting the water.

“There are THREE bathrooms in the damn house”, I protested.

“I am used to this one” she said as she reached for the flush. It was true. She had even attempted to pimp up this bathroom and therein lay a stash of magazines such as True Love, Drum and a recent one called Move.

Who knew that True Love could be found in a bathroom?

I pulled part of the shower curtain and looked at her by peering through the pulled side. She was in the buff but wrapped in a towel.

“So, you have been spending more time in the showers of late,” she stated as if this was the time and place to make comments about my new found sense for super-cleanliness.

“Cold days, hot showers,” I said.

“Are you sure it hasn’t anything to do with the fact that Monique told me you are nil by hole?” she asked.

“Nil by what?” I asked more in shock than need to understand.

“Let me join you”, she said and stepped into the shower and threw her towel to the floor.

“Are you out of your mind,” I said more out of the fear of Monique walking in on us than anything else.

“Relax,” she said reaching for the soap and cloth and covering herself in lather. “Monique has stepped out.”

She turned to look at me. At my face and then moving her eyes down.

No, no, no were the only words and thoughts on my mind.

She let out a laugh. I just had the horn real bad and I was sure in its head it was thinking what a terrific and delightful snatch this would be.

“Clearly you are happy to see me!” she said and we kissed whilst she scrubbed my back.

You know I never figured when I was going to take this shower, that I would be showered with kisses.

“Admit it,” she said after our lip lock ended as we pulled away for air. “You have wanted to kiss me for so long”.

I had thought about it. And resisted the urge even in the moments she had been in a state of undress or in moments of semi cleavage display when she was in the kitchen and there had been quite plenty of such moments.

There was also the annoying habit she had when we were watching a movie on the idiot box and some kissing scene was shown and Cilla would make this rather snake-hissing sound. “Hmmmmmwwwwwwwa!” It happened all the time.

To make it worse, she had decided to move some of the exercise equipment to the living room and would once in a while lay on the damn black thing (I don’t even know what to call it or how it got into my house) but there was no way those were legitimate exercise routines. She would lift her backside and part her legs in a rhythmic motion which almost got me choking on my breakfast cereal one day.



I had thought about getting sunglasses especially when I noticed that sometimes the rather tight leggings she wore accentuated her figure and bordered on what you would call a body scanner.

Yet here she was in her birthday suit and no imaginations were necessary. There was honour and there was Maid of Honour indeed.

“Hey,” I said breathlessly as she parted her legs and rinsed the wet body part there-between. “I think …”

I heard the noise of the padlock at the gate being fiddled with.

“… I think I am clean enough,” I said.

As I moved back, she looked up at me and had a slight frown on her face.

“You know where to find me ... when you wanna …”, she jokingly sang.