The Nairobi Woman

By Robert Aseda
Something about the Nairobi woman sets her apart from other females out there. The typical Nairobi woman is calculating and callous. She is fake. Don’t believe me? Look at her face. It’s covered in so much makeup it’s almost impossible to identify her. Still on complexion, she uses enough beauty creams to turn Lupita into Beyonce. Perhaps, the only true thing in her is the black and white photo in her national ID.

Her lips resemble a cat’s, which dipped the mouth in a pool of blood. To her, they appear appetizing and luscious, moistened and inviting. Kissing her is perhaps more catastrophic than drinking water from Nairobi River.

She shaves her eyebrows then draws them back using eye-pencil. The good thing with her shaving obsession is that the ‘right places’ are clean too. Supreme Leader Aladeen Motherfucker of Wadiya will tell you hairy armpits aren’t man’s best friend.

Her long, well-kept nails are covered in distinctive red or pink nail polish. Of course not natural nails, those from beauty shops of downtown Globe roundabout. The piercings all over – lower lip, ears, umbilical cord and ‘lower lip’ for the more audacious ones. Her earrings, varying in shape and color, could last her a lifetime. The Nairobi woman owns a collection of wigs and weaves preferably calling them ‘natural Brazilian hair’ or other fancy names.

The Nairobi woman has a deep black-American accent. Never mind the closest to America she’s ever been is spotting a Boston Red Sox Jersey picked after half a day’s haggling in Gikomba. Her favorite words: ‘you know’, ‘c’mon’, ‘as in like’,’ for real’. It’s her flirty look; it can make a devoted man of the cloak not debate about trashing marriage vows. Don’t get me started on her ‘Linda Okello’.
There’s nothing real about ladies’ behinds gracing Nairobi streets. I hear you can buy behinds in Nairobi.

The last time this woman tasted a home-cooked meal was when she visited shagz. Did I mention she doesn’t know how to cook? Okay, I’m exaggerating. She can cook tea, boiled eggs and perhaps rice using a rice cooker. Anyway cooking is overrated. The idea of chai, chipo mwitu is overpowered by dozens of men scavenging after her like gold; men with means to dine her at Nairobi’s Hiltons and Nevadas for a bite of chicken, fish and chips. There’s of course Terrific Tuesdays for the less endowed, to put a strong cause for thy love.

A slight bump on her tummy infamously known as ‘ghorofa’ is not a baby bump, just a small prize to pay for her nutrition habits.

The Nairobi woman guzzles Vodka the same way Boka swigs his tea. Surprisingly, when with her she won’t mention the Jamesons and the Cirrocs, but when alone she partakes of the stronger stuff, Bluemoon. Dry. Soda is for sissies.

Her favourite music? Soft rock and cool soul. That’s what she says. I hear it commands some aura of trendiness. A look at her memory card and majority are riddims and reggae songs. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with these music genres.

All Nairobi women have boyfriends who either left for Canada for further studies or South Africa for some job thing. Between the third date and whispering sweet nothings to your ear you’ll be wondering what happened to their loves. Slow down Alejandro. It’s not your strong lines; she’s just playing the game.

Her favorite sport is rugby, following the weekend action everywhere. This weekend in Masaku, next in Nakuru and yet last weekend she was in Kisumu for Dala Sevens. It’s not the awesomeness of the handoff or penalty or side step or try. It’s the after party. And doesn’t the Nairobi woman know how to have a good time! Her stunts put to shame the great sin cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Do they have parents? Hey, I’m not judging. I may be worse.

They walk in packs you’d think lionesses on the hunt. The outspoken one knows everything unimportant happening in the Metropolis from Oktoberfest, to the coolest gigs. You’d think she’s in the entertainment industry. Wait, she is. This queen makes it difficult to express deep attraction for a crew member without her express permission. The boss is seen and heard, just look for the one who’s trying too much.

In the animal kingdom, when a hunting pack gets prey it’s shared. When you date one of the girls, you are the pack’s property. She’ll invite you to meet her friends who’ll always be there, never mind ten dates later. Judging, studying to make sure you’re the right one. And what better way to prove your worthiness than quenching their insatiable appetite for the bitter stuff. Thank God for M-Shwari, otherwise watu wangechonga viazi for these ratchets.

Her heightened fashion sense has no respect for the weather. Drizzling or raining cats and dogs. This woman is always in a short skirt, hot pants or one of those shorts hockey girls wouldn’t wear to a match. They can be sexy when they want to. (Have you seen Jedi in one? Trust me you need to.) If she’s in a dress, chances are it‘s a bareback and the tailor ran out of fabric. Pneumonia or those acute respiratory infections are just figments of imagination by their haters.

You’d be forgiven to think there’s a county uniform. Nearly everybody is in animal print pants or dress with matching sunglasses; never mind July with the sun somewhere in Soweto. She’s always in heels even when it’s obvious she’s struggling.

She has those huge handbags with clothes, an extra pair of shoes, scarves, sanitary towels, beauty tools, extra weaves (just in case), loaves of bread and everything you’ll need to survive. You think they are called ntalala wapi’ for no reason?

She wears G-strings/thongs on days she’s feeling a little religious. Other days she simply airs her ‘goods’. “Mother’s union’ is archaic and so 19th century.” The only thing allowed from this century is Chelsea football club.

The Nairobi woman’s ‘haters’ hate her guts and are jealous of her; wannabes who wouldn’t hesitate to switch places with her. “You know how it is when you’re successful and suddenly haters wanna bring you down?”
What doesn’t occur to her is that nobody in their right mind envies her.

These women have huge social following. Imagine twenty likes for sneezing. Their Facebook statuses are usually in IMAX, JKIA or other classy places. Men with insatiable appetites always try to outdo each other on her wall. She pretends she doesn’t like the attention, but deep down she knows this validation is necessary. Her self-worth is fickle and legions of admirers remind her she’s pretty. Some of the statements are gross exaggerations and pure lies. But stretching truth for affection is what we men were born to do. When your strongest point is not the fiscal front your tongue needs to be quick or settle for the hands to compete favorably. Flattery is thus a natural adaptation necessary for the broke man’s survival.

As always I’m exaggerating ….Nairobi women are cool, fun-loving people and great company.

I’m out.

About my guest writer
Robert Aseda is a fascinating chap. Endearingly so. He says it’s difficult to describe himself then goes ahead to give me lengthy paragraph of titles I am struggling to squeeze in here, hehhe. Aseda is a writer and a poet, a radio personality and a youth advocate for their sex rights. Ahem. He’s a soccer fanatic who also plays hockey. Entrepreneur and hustler extraordinaire. In a word, he’s a free spirit.

Aseda blogs. His blog, he says, is a diary. “It’s a collection of stories from a whining citizen who tells it as he sees it through his eyes. And since I am not selfish, I may as well share it with you.” I crack a smile at that last bit.

Take a look yourself:

21 days in the City
July: When time folded

Comments (1)

Leave a Reply

Subscribe to our content