Fancies of a scribe

I began penning this article a long while ago. I had my thoughts put together, ideas flowing and the structure in place. Except I had not humiliated the keyboard by tapping at it yet.

Finally, I have managed to lay hands on a pen and, most crucially, a grip on the eternally elusive time, and here we are.

Shall we say, Bingo!

You see, the alpha man is not an idler blogger as most wannabe writers are. Any feathers ruffled? Many, I bet.

Sir Nkurunziza has his professional duties and a million other enthusiasms, all competing for his hard-to-come-by attention, as to afford to have surplus time to attend to scribal compulsions all the time.

Damnit! What the deuce am I saying? Anyhow. Take me wrongly at your own peril.

So, here is the chronicle. A chronicle you must hear.

Wait, it’s not a chronicle, really.

FYI, I don’t lay any solid claim to being a chronicler worthy of any note, shout no. Chronicling is a pretext we idlers fancy using whenever we want to put our inherently cheap thoughts across, to whoever may care to listen.

Rather it’s an analysis and a vision. An objective, perhaps.

What type of spouse do you envisage? What kind of man would you want to father your children? What species of woman would you want to carry your children? What breed of human would you wish to grow gray hair with?

The pedigree type, most will shout. Yet how do you arrive at that special mate? Good question, folks. I will tell you how. In just a moment.

Lately, the alpha man has been thinking real hard about this oft-ignored subject that is otherwise of massive substance, and hefty repercussions.

Following is what I came up with: the threshold that my partner must meet. Fancies though these may seem, yet it is what I want.

Even before I begin, please note that ours will be pretty much a contract.

Conduct

This is the central pillar. Mannerisms of an invalid are unwelcome. Behaviour should be impeccable. Someone who can answer me when I ask what programme is showing on TV even when I can see it’s the horribly-cast Muchacha Italiana.

Beauty

We all go for this. But my lady must be Natalie Portman-smoking hot. And when I say Nat, I mean just that.

Yet here is where I get so utterly subjective. Plump has never been my thing, never will. Curves though I may, repeat may, allow, but not so much flesh as to fall free in the shape of flab. Hapana!

I fancy ‘em petite, much as a fellow scribe insists that ‘these little devils can really raise hell outta nothing.’ A 5’1 like Lady Gaga’s is just fine.

Dressing

There are no rules for this. She will dress as she pleases, but sexy and appealingly. I would fancy it more if she can put on a pair of onesies, shorts, loafers and dresses, and look strikingly the part.

Have I mentioned before that a lady in sexy flats and socks makes me squirm with need?

Smile

It has to be evermore winsome. The variety that melts an icy heart –sometimes I can allow myself to get really cold. She can help exorcise my gloom. The Rooney Mara type of beam.

Exercise

A gym-animal would be most suitable, for fitness is a big plus in the matters that I should not mention here. She should however not have muscles of a career weightlifter.

Complexion

The tone has to be bright. Skin that sparkles is what I mean. The kind you see on sassy models on Nivea billboards. She must not have a freckle. Hell, no!

If she is not of light skin complexion, I may take her in on the condition that this gene runs in her lineage.

 Language

English and French are a must. English –and this has to be flawless –because it is the favourite tongue of the alpha man. 
Dear Lord, I loathe girls who speak with outrageous accents, saying nothing really. Miserable souls, the god of language will have no mercy on you.

Some French will do because the boy studied (some!) French in college. Never mind he benefitted very insignificantly from the syllabus. Thus she will have the honour of learning me. And learn I must.

Intelligence

This value is so sweet to not possess. Sometimes the alpha man allows himself to wallow in thoughtlessness, and in such instances, she will be there to temper my idiocy. I can’t claim to understand what I meant by this line. Not without telling a fib.

But that she must be brainy is the base line.

Reasoning

My missus must possess an analytical mind. She must possess deductive genius of jaw dropping status. Having read Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot’s detective exploits, I must say I fell in love with people who boast this venerable quality.
Dude, seriously? Dude. I'm not sorry, it's what I want, and what I must have.

Mediocrity will not be permissible in our union. I will bust her without a second thought, poor soul.

Relations

I will love my duchess' family. And she will have no choice but reciprocate. But one thing I must forbid is her relations to dictate what we must do.
Toughee
I want someone who can do a five-kilometre jog in the morning and prepare breakfast without whining. Someone who can go watching the Rhino Charge on a rainy May morning, or go mountaineering when Mt. Kenya forest is at its gloomiest. A lady who can punch back when threatened.

Really not the mushy type that would call dial 999 and my workplace in an emergency for "Darling there is big mende inside the kitchen cabinet."

Enthusiasms

She may love literature: reading or writing. Having both would be an added advantage.

I am a film maniac, thus she should be a friend of the screen. Strictly, I cannot even start to date someone to whom Inferno, Deadpool, The Jungle Book and Apocalypse sound like, at best Double Dutch, at worst, Gypsy language.

She must have the capacity to draw amusement from many a faculties. In other words, we should have similar hobbies and interests. Not all. At least several.

Independent entities

Between us there will be autonomy. I do not wish to place any stringent measures on how she should conduct her life, especially when her actions do not impact on my life in any way.

She will have her financial latitude, freedom and all she may desire. This I won’t tamper with.

Duties

It has never been my habit to rely upon someone to run my errands. No one should babysit me. I like performing my own chores.

I can grill my sandwich, brew coffee for myself, and clip my nails, can't I?

I will not enslave her in any way whatsoever.

 Friends

She may have chums of her choice, it’s entirely upon her. But I would take displeasure to the ilk with hideous tendencies of hovering around long after dinner has been served and late night news anchors gone to sleep.

I must confess my abhorrence for the type that is naturally privy to and discuss everything from what the Kardashians are up to, to what peek-a-boo bras and panties are new in the lingerie market, and their knights in bed.

Drinking

You cannot deny pleasures to a woman who can tell the difference between genuine Chablis and counterfeit Chateau Montelena, can you? Your answer is as good as my guess.

She can take as much wine as her palate will accommodate, except she should not drink outside the confines of our home. I must forbid her subscription to cheap liquor as is sold in piteous joints that are so common in Nairobi. Sparkling wine from worthy joints will be allowed any time.

Children

We will sire just one kid: my goddess Monique. This proviso is not debatable.

Terminating the contract

My missy will have absolute liberty to walk away whenever she so pleases. I will not hold her back, except there won’t be an opening for her return.

If you strongly feel you encompass these qualities, tada!

Apply now.

Canvassing will lead to automatic disqualification. 
Attention: This is not a request.

CONVERSATIONS WITH SELF

‘Hi, miss.’

‘Do we know each other?’

‘I was wondering that too.’

‘Excuse me.’

‘What pride!’

‘This happens to be the finest wine in the whole region.’

‘I reckon I didn’t notice you were a sommelier.’

‘That’s how we miss our fortune.’

‘I guess you need an urgent reality check’

‘Not more than you need to open your eyes wider, you don’t mean?’

‘This coffee is horrible,’

‘Just like the one who made it.’

‘I wanna break free from this trouble.’

‘My advice, break free from yourself.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pray, you’re the rut yourself.’

‘How do you think the meal was?’

‘Unbelievable. Who is the artist?’

‘The gourmet happens to be standing right in your front.’

‘Honey, I don’t love you.’

‘Me neither, darling.’

‘I made you.’

‘I made myself.’

‘You copied me.’

‘I am smarter.’

‘I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either.’

‘I think you are nuts.’

‘Consider the feeling mutual.’

‘You are a jerk-ass.’

‘Except that I’m not a joke. Like you.’

What you did was utter mediocrity.

Her palate for wine is learned.

This lass is barely tolerable.

Give lash to the horse.

‘What do you think of me?’

‘Nothing. What do you think of me?’

‘Technically, you are a dumbass.’

I can punch within and beyond my weight.

‘Can you please share with me what are you thinking, now?’

‘You, definitely.’

'If I could persuade you to accompany me for dinner, my good lady.'
'You have, sir.'

Charisma does not always sit in a stunning body;

Nor does incredible sex mean a happy life.

I want a lady of flawless conduct, but not a woman with mannerisms of the Victorian-era.

She is a fabulous dresser, and a baggage of pride too.

He is chivalrous, albeit conceited.
‘Can we date?’

‘Is that your best ace?’

‘Can I share a secret?’

‘I’m surprised you can keep one.’

Great is a man who has vast territories under his command;

But even greater is a man who has infinite latency to expand his territories.

‘You have no idea how much I care.’

‘You have no idea how much I don’t.’

Your craving for ill drama is unrivalled.

The resemblance between the boy and his father is magnificent.

Brimming wisdom is bereft of harm.

A little wealth bewitches people
Wise is a man who can keep his cool head in the face of a sudden turn in his fortune.

Shrewder is a man who keeps a spare trick up his sleeve;

It is a world of endless shockers we live in.

‘How the hell did you land this job?’

‘The boss.’

‘What did the boss do?’

‘Fuck me.’

1

My ex: a chronicle

Love. Sigh. Loving. Sigh, sigh. Getting loved. Triple sigh. Cringe.

This is the worst spell to ever be cast upon the face of the earth. A most enchanting illusion, a lie, deception. Even lunacy.

Exes. A taboo subject this is. Yet, you will, for all due respect, allow me to navigate these waters. Thank you.

I, just like you, have been involved in a romantic relationship. Not once. Not twice. Several; running into tens. But one relationship out of these stands out, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Your guess is correct: my first love. Ahem. Everyone has a tale to tell about the first instance their affection juices dripped.

What is this thing about first-love? It is out of my comprehension, a faculty, I bet, that would make Aristotle and other smart asses leave their research tables weeping with the despondency of a failed test.

In a nutshell, I had a girl. How we met was pretty normal. At a college event. You see, nothing much to write home about.

After the usual ritualistic far-fetched flattery and flirtations, we fell in love. All too easily. Easy like pie.

Her Majesty was a genuine beauty: juicy legs, long blonde hair of Uranus-like curls, of terrific skin tone you would eat out of her feet sole. Too much on one soul? Not so.  
I must say that her body was hotter than sulphur. Holy macaroni! Sex with her was heavenly.
Mademoiselle spoke the kind of English you hear only on British classical movies like Game of Thrones, and a borrowed otherworldly accent to complete her ridiculously unbelievable persona.

Again, she was a stunning foodie, an expert in the cookery. But please make me understand, how the deuce was this skill of any importance when all she did was insist that we eat out, all the t

Bill and cooin love

ime?

Refusing would drive a wedge between us, a scenario I dreaded upon.

Did I mention that she Lisa is niece to a legislator known better for his hankering after hullabaloo, and drama?

Such was my fairytale girlfriend. She was the most excellent thing ever –in my wisdom of the day.

And I instantly won a hero status among my chums, and foes.

Our love was overflowing, breaking at the seams.

Yet controversial.

‘Yours is more of an orchestra than real love,’ a friend declared.

In dismay: Why the hell? We are real.’

‘This is a drama you are staging. Not love.’ What a destructive verdict.

For rage, I had trashed the convo.

Not long after, a furious tempest.

Half a year down the line, to be precise. Typically most relationships do not manage this hurdle, or weather the tornado that the after-six-months romp sires.

Accusations? The usual budget: I was not according her sufficient attention. Familiar, right? And total bullshit too, you will agree with me.

All attempts to fan, salvage and resuscitate the romance aborted.

My mate was not wrong.

Good people, our agonising break-up came, coincidentally, during my attachment. Guys, you all understand how tormenting it usually is trying to concentrate on the training, especially if your supervisor is a sadist, and fiercer than Fish Mooney in Gotham.

On the allegation of neglect, good people, the truth is, I was busy. I was trying, and doing my best. I was –good guess, again –skin broke.

When a cathedral mouse is richer than you

We had wined and dined in an upmarket restaurant not once, and positive, I was doing everything in my capacity, and even stretching myself, to support and make her happy. Without reciprocity, mind you.

A rational soul would ask for nothing more, when all the other’s barns have been depleted.

Nonetheless, selfishness thrived over love, compassion and, common sense.

It comes to that point in life, where you really must cut losses and bust. This action is the inevitable waterloo.

So, bae left.

It was hard to believe. Even harder to accept.

Grieving followed. Grieving happened uninhibited. I was inconsolably upset. I was the casualty of our relationship's collapse.

And the promises! The sweet, infinitesimal, funny fancies we had together. The crap. How hollow.

These dreams are now dumped frozen somewhere under Lake Baikal.

I wanted her to carry my daughter, my idol Monique. Every shot who happens to know me will tell you just how sacred this tot is to me.

Sweet Monique

She peed on this dream too.

Get Moni though I must.

It is the 21^st century, and I haven’t read anywhere in the papers about a decrease in ovaries among the womankind. The eggs are in their billions, with many more free for donation to anyone who cares to have them, while landing a willing and loving surrogate mother is easier than getting a cab to town.

She left the alpha man for another better, wiser and perhaps more loaded nigger – checks and balances are part of the game, if you must date her.

 The guy was popular like a rockstar in college.
For woe.

Their hyped up flair of a relationship hardly lasted four months. How could it, in all honesty? Would Providence permit this injustice? Practically, no.

Childish fights epitomised their ephemeral stay-together. Incessant quarrels over little nothings. 
The good bloke, she realised all too soon, was a joke.

Nods.

I was not in the least surprised.

FYI this brunette was of cantankerous conduct. Say, irascible and incredibly puerile propensities. A lame bully would be a more accurate description of her.

She is the breed Sir Irvin Washington (may he rest in peace) calls ‘termagant’ in his amazing fable of Rip Van Winkle. It’s a splendid read. Try it someday.

The stripped fact is, keeping buddies while dating this type of girl is a big hassle. She perpetually sees countless faults in them, and reads iniquity in their hearts. And she will tell you why you must leave them.

Or her, if you choose to keep them.

Bust her!

Tell you what? There are guys who walked out on me when I moved in with Lisa. Many. She had a viperfish air about her person, despising all that was hallowed to me before she came into the picture.

Yet I was deceived like King Uther Pendragon by the disgusting sorcery of the troll in the guise of Lady Catrina of Tregor in Merlin.

Who did she think she was? Khaleesi the Mother of Dragons? Helen of Troy? Venus or Madonna? She was close to these, that’s given.

Close, but not quite.

I thought I would never date again. We all feel so when our maiden love torpedoes.

Until something more finger-licking smiled up on me, and knew that my testosterone would be very much handy elsewhere.

Guys, I lost my humour. My feelings went out the window with Lady Lisa.

What I have now is a heart of steel. Like one cast in Germany’s the Rhine. Heaven forbid, I cannot lie to someone about how much I feel them. I cannot love, simply. I fucking cannot be in a relationship!

Why would I? I mean, there are finer ladies who slap me with enthralling smirks at coffee shops. The variety of grins these mortals have honed make you stop stirring your coffee and stick your finger in the nose, utterly spellbound.

I run into these every time at Thika’s Pizza Inn, whenever I’m out to grab my cup for the road. This joint is the only goddamned place in the goddamned township where you can get some kickass coffee.

Their cappuccino though is overpriced, so, with my skimpy earnings, but with a devoutly coffee-faithful palate, I content myself with their cheaper but equally vitalising Americano.

Their smiles are legitimate. So just so you know a smile is synonymous with a fling. Cringe. Gosh, for what other possible end would a total stranger afford to smile at you?

These you can leap into bed with for as little a return of the magical smile. And bed here means not the Oxford Dictionary bed. Rather, anywhere: behind a FuelSave, Nakumatt or, yes, Chase Bank.

The latter particularly would be friendlier as the owners have since left. Rumour has it they are in the Bahamas enjoying sunshine, sunbathing, and the smell of sea.

Oopsie! The drivel.

Where were we?

Oh, yes, ladies who smile at you at such places as a coffee shop. No. We were discussing the earthly reason that would compel me to embark onto a long-term and usually more expensive relationship when there are simpler, cheaper and even more fun, yes more fun, arrangements.

I have had the luck of meeting her. And every time we met, I was benevolent enough to esteem her with diplomacy, in the way of a gentleman.

I gather –from my all-knowing sources –that missy has been undergoing a raft of changes lately. Man, she is in a transition.

Takes a draft at my dear coffee.

She dons in longer, shout ‘decent’, dresses of startling modesty. Like an old serpent does to her skin, she has shorn her hair. Daring, right? Takes another draft, this time longer.

Nowadays, she whiles her time reading the 600-page-plus type of novels. The ones with English so stiff you will really have to be high on weed to comprehend a thing, leave alone the plot.

The number is three, every month. Bites my burger.

More rumour has it that her life has been more tumultuous than the economy of Greece.

Straightens my shirt’s creases.

The people we meet in life have an infinite capacity to change us. Transform us forever. Regrettably, I met the wrong strain of a lover.

I felt that Christian Grey –for the uninitiated, Grey is the succulent guy, CEO of Grey Enterprises, Anastasia Steel falls in love with in Fifty Shades of Grey –was nuts when he said he did not recognise love-making, preferring instead to fuck.

Hard fuck, he emphasises.

Let your jaws drop.

Like poor Miss Anastasia, I did not initially understand him. Until now. If I ever bump into him in town, his omelette will be on me.

I regret nothing, but I lost my emotional touch with many a things. Emotional connection –sigh –is what I now abhor. I hate the fact that I now dislike being able to connect emotionally. But it’s ruin I am guarding myself against.

Circumstances have taught me to prefer more physical interactions: amorous congress. The searing, impulsive and invigorating shagging. The Trojan type of sex.

The kind you see in blue movies, and which keep you glued to your screen all weekend in your house with the door tightly bolted.

We all watch porn. I watch porn. I love porn.

Takes another sip of my coffee. Not Maina Kageni’s cliché whisky.

Attention! That is not to suggest that the alpha man beds any beddable meatbag he runs into. No. Not just anyone. The subject better be mouth-watering in looks, and brainy. Screw manners. Fuck status. Fuck everything else.

Why am I saying all this? Is it out of disgust? Bitterness? Loss? Negative. It is just to ridicule my then folly, and laud my wisdom of the present moment. The tsunami left me way wiser than Gaius. Claps for self.

Expenses are a million times fewer. Go ahead, brand me a cheapskate. A cheapskate who can now save for some real estate in a not-so-badly-off neighbourhood. Being nagged has ceased to be part of my life.

Yet benefits are still intact. Repeat that line.

What’s more, I’m more at peace with myself, and friends. Asking for more would be a distinct act of thanklessness to my new, better circumstances.

Bites another portion of my burger. Chews, slowly. Then listens to the intermittent thoughts in my crammed head.

I will now pen down.

I’m stepping out to treat my eyes to what they fancy beholding.

Adieu!